Nothing but ashes II
by Little-Corners
Summary: Modern AU, set in the criminal underworld of Miami. Following on from the first installment, just after Robert's Rebellion. Cat, Sandor, Cersei and Victarion POV's this time. Smatterings of Jaime/Cersei, Cat/Ned, Cersei/Sandor, the Greyjoys being generally troublesome and strip clubs.
1. Chapter 1

Cersei.

The gentle ping from overheard woke her from her daydream, indicating that they would soon be landing. Turning, she looked lazily out of the window and saw the world in miniature, dotted with clouds. The golden curve of the beach gave way to a glittering sea and she realised with surprise how much she'd missed Miami.

She stopped the plump little air stewardess as she passed and ordered a vodka on ice. There was a brief moment of protest from the woman but Cersei smiled coolly and that was all it took. Her father could buy this airline; she didn't care if they had stopped the drinks service.

She sipped her drink as she watched the world come ever closer through the frost stained window and smiled to think about how excited she was to be coming back. New York had been so much more cool and fresh, full of interesting people and interesting stories. The nights started earlier and ended later. The parties were on roof tops, all sleek cocktails and lantern lights. She had had an apartment overlooking Central Park, and it had been good to wake up to something other than palm trees. Miami was so different, and yet she could already feel herself slipping back in to it like a warm glove.

But then again, wherever Jaime was, she belonged. She could be flying in to any far off city, in any strange little country and if he were there, she would be home. She felt that familiar rush in the pit of her stomach as she thought about him, and a slow, eager smile spread across her face. She crossed her legs as the rush became a tingle, imaging his fingers, his mouth, his tongue. She took a deep breath and bit her lip, still smiling.

There had been others – a handful, nothing more – in New York. They had all been suitably handsome, eager to please, happy to flatter her. She allowed them to occupy her time when the need was too great or the night was too lonely. Jaime did not need to know about them. He wouldn't understand. Cersei had tried to broach the subject once, a year or so ago. There had been a boy in school whose smile had hit her like a hammer one day across the classroom. She remembered the notes he had passed her under the table, and the way he looked at her when she blushed. It had been the first time she had noticed that being with another boy was possible.

Jaime was her other half, but she had realised right from the start that they would never be able to be together – not in the way she wanted. With the others, it was just sex. Jaime would have every other part of her, the parts that mattered. He could not see it that way though, and so the subject had died - for him at least.

The ground kept creeping ever closer until finally, they touched down. When she stepped out of the doorway, the air hit her in a familiar wave – warm and sweet and still. The terminal was busy but travelling first class had its benefits and she was able to bypass the majority of the queues. Despite its drawbacks, flying was still her most favourite way to travel. There was something inherently glamorous about sailing through the air, encased in leather and steel, being waited on hand and foot. She was travelling alone, by choice rather than necessity, and wondered briefly if he would be there to meet her. Her father would send a car, but Jaime had said he might be able to slip away too. It would give them some precious time alone together before getting in to the city. He had been kept pretty busy ever since that ugly business with Aerys – there had been a lot to sort out. Their father had not wanted her to fly over until things were more settled, but she had found herself pacing back and forth in the apartment by Central Park, eager to get back in to the thick of it. She could smell the heady scent of revolution even from there. When Jaime told her what had happened, she had felt jealous. She had wanted to be there, riding that glorious wave, watching it break across the face of that decrepit old man and his stale old empire. Nothing would have pleased her more. Even Elia….

She stopped just short of being pleased about that, but she could not deny that a smile had passed her lips when she heard. When you cut the head off a serpent, it was best to make a clean cut. She would have been happier if all the Targaryen children had been accounted for, but at least Europe was far enough away. If they had any sense, they would never return. Her father's ascension had to be as smooth as possible.

At the arrivals gate she looked for a familiar face, a glimpse of golden hair and a roguish smile in the crowd, but was disappointed. She scanned the boards looking for her name but there was nothing there either. With annoyance, she began to make her way to the doors, already searching in her purse for her cell when a shadow loomed up from nowhere. Stopping, she found herself level to a thick chest, vaguely aware of the sound of breathing somewhere above her. She took a step back, cell phone still in hand, and looked up at his face. The scars were visible under his lank hair, twisting half of his features in to a grotesque mockery of a face. He was four years younger yet he towered over her. Taller even than Jaime now, she realised. He nodded curtly and indicated towards the doors where a sleek black Mercedes was waiting. He moved to take her suitcase but she found herself pulling away.

'I'm fine, thank you' she said briskly, her disappointment fresh. He shrugged and turned away from her, leaving her to open the car door herself. He took the front seat next to the chauffer and they drove in silence back to the city and, she hoped, to Jaime.


	2. Chapter 2

Cat.

Cat had only seen the inside of the old Targaryen hotel a few times when Aerys had been alive. She remembered a cold, white marble cocoon, with no discernible trace of warmth or personality and a clinical, acidic smell. But now the place was alive with workmen, stripping and chipping away, like a hundred busy ants swarming over a dead carcass. Robert was wasting no time in making the hotel his own. The giant marble Chinese dragons under the reception desk remained but they were the only things she could readily recognise. There were dust sheets across the floors, the smell of paint thick in the air and all around, the buzz of electric power tools echoing. The hotel's grand re-opening was scheduled for two weeks time, and right now that seemed awfully close. Cat was doubtful all of Robert's plans could be made reality by then, but nevertheless, she had to admire his ambition.

They picked their way through the debris towards the elevator, and were soon spirited away to the upper floors. The workmen were there too, but in much smaller numbers. Most of their efforts were concentrated on the area's the public would see. Aerys' old apartments were largely untouched for the time being, although Cat knew Robert had plans for those as well. For now, just the old man's furniture had been removed, replaced with a haphazard collection of pieces that reflected Roberts more eclectic taste. Cat had never seen the inside of the penthouse before, but for the first time found herself thinking that perhaps it would have been better as it was before. At least Aerys seemed to have had a little more sense of taste and continuity.

Robert was waiting for them in one of the boardrooms. There were windows across three of the walls, flooding it with light. The large table was deep chestnut oak, polished to a shine with pleasing scents of leather and beeswax. A shining chrome bar was in the corner, with crystal decanters filled with amber, gold and burgundy and a bucket of ice. People were standing around idly, filling glasses, talking quietly.

Robert was seated at the head of the table, already with a drink in hand. His tattooed arms were covered by shirt sleeves, tucked in loosely to smart looking trousers. If it weren't for the shaven head and the careless way he had slung himself in to the chair, he might look as though he had always belonged. Cat recognised some faces and it seemed Robert had invited nearly everyone. Tywin Lannister stood apart from everyone, silent and still with his back to the window, looking straight ahead as Roose Bolton spoke to him in hushed whispers. One of Robert's brother was there too, another largely silent figure, measuring each person up and apparently finding them wanting by the sour look on his face. A tall, thin man with hair shot with silver talked to a younger man who was his image and ignored everyone else. She saw Jon Arryn seated near Robert, with other men she did not recognise, leaning in close and nodding earnestly at whatever he was saying. All around the room, figures robed in black stood with their backs against the wall and the recognisable bulge of a revolver at their hips. Cat knew some of their names, and knew what they had done. Her uneasiness made her feel nervous, but she shook it away as best she could. They had sworn new allegiances, she reminded herself. They are Robert's men now, in theory at least.

She took a seat at the table while her father did his greetings and Edmure fetched them drinks. Across the table, her gaze fell on a pair of serious grey eyes, the colour of stone. She smiled clumsily but apparently Eddard's attention was elsewhere as he seemed to look right through her. When her brother came back with her drink, she turned away from his uneasy stare and sank back in to the chair.

The others were coming to take their seats now and soon the chatter fell away in to more serious talk. Robert held court from the head of the table, slipping further and further in the role before Cat's eyes. The angry young man was still there, hidden under the stiff clothes and the patter, masked by the glamour of the boardroom, but he was doing a good job of holding him in. The last few months had changed everything, him included. He didn't seem so young any more. Nobody did. She glanced across to the Stark boy sitting opposite her and realised at once that she would have to stop calling him that. They were not boys, not now. He was he the oldest one left, a family of two where there had once been five. She remembered Brandon then, and a cup of coffee in her kitchen. It was another lifetime ago.

'I have no intention of messing anyone around' Robert was saying loudly. 'As far as I'm concerned, things can stay as they were under Aerys. I see no point in changing up everyone's percentages. The system wasn't broken; just the man running it.'

There were nods from the majority and mummers of agreement. The tall, silver haired man and his son remained stoic, Cat noticed.

'That is unfortunate' he said crisply from the far end of the table. 'We had hoped that a new regime might allow things to be distributed more fairly.'

'We know what changes you'd like, Balon' said Robert meeting the older man's eye. 'Aerys knew too and he didn't give it to you. Why should I?'

Balon Greyjoy lent back on his chair and regarded Robert with a hard, unblinking stare.

'Remind us again, why is it that we are all expected to just roll over and accept your authority on this matter? What worth do you have exactly, an unproven boy?'

Cat watched as the assembled power of the city shifted its gaze from Balon to Robert, silent and waiting. No one spoke up.

_They agree with him_ she thought, as her heart went to the fierce young man at the head of the table. _Don't give them what they want_. _They expect you to explode. Don't do it, don't do it. _

Robert held the eyes of the table steady, the muscles of his neck and jaw taut. He leant forward, rising slightly from his chair as his hands spread out across the slick surface of the table. His words came out quietly, the battle for control evident in the slight tremor that accompanied them.

'And what is it that you have to boast about Greyjoy? How many achievements do you have to your name? Or is it that you've just been happy to sit in the shadows and pick at the leftovers Aerys threw your way. Have _any_ of you ever done anything different? When the shit started to rain down, did any of you move to stop it? No. When he began to screw us over, one by one, you looked the other way and kept your heads down. I stood in this exact room, nearly six months ago, listening to the ravings of a mad man as he threatened to have the woman I love - one of our own! – killed. And still nothing from you. And when he murdered her family in cold blood in this very building, it was me who took the first step. It was me. It was me who found that son of bitch's fucking son and shot him right between the eyes for what he did. It was me. I lit the match that blew that old man clear away. So how about you try telling me again why I don't deserve to take everything he left. How about you look at what I did, and you try telling me I'm not worthy.'

The silence was heavy. It smothered them. Cat glanced at Balon and saw the flinch in his expression; small but noticeable, a crack at the corner of his watery eyes. Delicately, he let his hands fall to his sides and he stood – a motion so fluid it seemed almost instant. The men in black all moved as one, hands instantly on their weapons. Balon laughed then, and his chuckle broke across the silence like ripples across a lake.

'Calm yourselves' he said to the room, raising his hands with palms exposed. 'We're leaving. Rodrik, come.'

They turned away from the table, father and son both, making their way to the door. But Robert wasn't finished with them yet.

'If you leave this room, I'll take it that I no longer have your co-operation' he said carefully. 'Any privileges you might have had might need to be reconsidered.'

Balon stopped in the doorway to chuckle again. He did not turn when he spoke.

'Privileges?' he snorted. 'Do what you want Baratheon. What was it you said, about leftovers? Well perhaps you're right. And perhaps I'm tired of being hungry.'


	3. Chapter 3

Sandor.

The apartment building was largely empty these days. A few ragged looking junkies occupied a couple of the rooms, and a few sad old men who'd lost their teeth and their dignity to alcohol and memories. Sometimes, Sandor saw a kid or two carrying paper bags of groceries up the stairwell, sometimes with a mother or older sister in tow. Mostly, they all kept their eyes down and shuffled past him but occasionally, he'd catch one of the children looking right at him. One of them had even taken to grinning at him in a rather lopsided manner whenever their paths crossed. Sometimes it caught Sandor off guard and made him laugh, which just made the boy grin even wider. Well, before the mother noticed and hurried him away.

The building was as depressing as the people who still inhabited it. An endless walk of dimly-lit and silent corridors, united in their stains and odour, patterned with half hearted graffiti and uninviting doorways. All except the 12th floor however, which stood alone as a bright stripe of activity in amongst the dying shell of the block. Dark looking men stood guard at the heads of the stairwells, heavy set and heavily armed. Beyond them, the rooms had all been knocked through to make one large, open plan space. Fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed above the set up of tables and a radio played Latin music with a distinctly tinny resonance on a loop. Around the tables, men and women were busy cutting, weighing and bagging white powder in to easily saleable packets. Sandor was sat on a chair in the corner of the room, rolling a cigarette and watching the whole process with vague disinterest. They all seemed pretty happy in their work; at least, he assumed they were. He had never learnt Spanish.

He thought her name might be Esther, but he couldn't be sure. She was somebody's sister or cousin, and had only started a week ago, but she seemed to know them all already - or else just had an uncanny ability to look like she belonged. She wore her hair down and kept pushing it back behind her ears so that it always had a slight curl. Her eyes were dark, almost black, and bright like the ocean under the moon. When he watched her, he imagined a little house out near the beach somewhere, with a kitchen full of siblings and the smell of fried chicken on the grill. A bed shared with a younger sister, under a quilt of knitted patchwork, in a room lit by lantern light. She kept them on all night so that the sister wouldn't have nightmares but also so she could read. Night time would be the only time she had to herself. He wasn't sure what she read yet, but he was sure she was a reader. He knew their first conversation off by heart, even though they had yet to speak to one another.

He lit the cigarette and inhaled. In an hour, maybe two, they should be finished here and he could slip off. The apartment block was just where the gear got cut up – it never stayed in one place for too long. The vans would take it over to the distributors next, and Sandor wasn't needed for that. The rest of the night would be his; a few little hours to waste how he wanted. Tywin had started paying rent on a bedsit, and the recent little increase in his wage packet had been enough to add a decent sized tv and mircrowave – simple pleasures that would amuse him until he fell asleep. He hadn't questioned the sudden change to his fortunes. Anything was a step up from motels and the back seats of cars.

His cell rang – another gift from his employer – and he fished it out from his jean pocket, flipping it open with his thumb as he noticed the name lit up on the screen. The voice on the other end was unnaturally cheerful for this time of night.

'Get out of that hole before you start getting a contact high and come over. My dad wants to see you.'

Tywin kept his main office at his hotel in the elegant, Mediterranean flavoured Coral Gables. The office was on the ground floor, sitting at the back of the glittering gold and crystal scattered bar that covered the level. Sandor had to walk past it though, past the main entrance with its manicured hedgerows, velvet-clad doormen and the burnished interior beyond. He headed instead to the staff entrance, down a damp little alley way at the side of the building where no one of any importance was likely to see him.

Tywin was at his desk when Sandor was ushered in, studying a newspaper from behind a pair of thin-rimmed spectacles. The room was the colour of blood, dark and opulent. He didn't notice Jaime sitting on the couch until the door had closed behind them.

He looked different these days; smarter, sleeker, a little thinner too. Dressed all in black from the leather shoes to the coal silk tie, he put Sandor in mind some kind of jungle cat, wired for the kill. It suited him better than those loose jeans and t-shirts he had been so fond of, but some nagging little voice in the back of Sandor's mind reminded him of how impractical it would all be.

Tywin put down his paper, giving them both a look that suggested he had been reminded of something vaguely unpleasant. He took off his glasses and carefully laid them on the desk.

'Clegane, my son tells me you are an excellent shot. Is that accurate?'

Sandor shrugged. He knew it was, but it paid to be cautious until you knew what was being asked of you. Tywin never wasted words on small talk. He nodded curtly and continued.

'And you have worked for me for, say, nearly six years? In one capacity or another.'

_Since I was 10 years old_ Sandor thought. _A boy, alone. _

'Yes' he said simply.

'Your father was a decent man, Clegane. I trusted him. Can I trust you?'

Sandor nodded. The question was redundant. He could no more betray Tywin than he could stop breathing. _I was a boy. I had nowhere else to go. _

Tywin paused and eyed him for a moment, and Sandor felt himself being measured. Eventually the man seemed to come to his conclusion.

'I see no point in wasting talent, or loyalty. A good business man makes use of all his resources. It seems that my son has become rather taken with his new found celebrity, and wishes to stay in the employ of our new young boss. I would object were it not for the fact that it lends me certain… advantages. However, it also means that I cannot rely on him to keep an eye on his sister anymore. This city is still not secure. This boy Robert is unproven, but Cersei insists that she remain in Miami. Thus I find I have a position that requires filling, and Jaime has suggested your name. He assures me there is no one more trustworthy, and I would tend to concur.'

He placed the tips of his long fingers together, leaning slightly forward across his desk.

'So, do we have an agreement?'

Sandor looked from one Lannister to the other, as though he might find a hint of mockery in their eyes. But of course he wouldn't. They would never be so careless.

He nodded.


	4. Chapter 4

Victarion.

Three sleek black saloon cars drove in silent procession down the concourse, like an oil slick through the bone dry city. Victarion looked back out in to the world as it slid past, eerily silent behind the tinted, bullet proof glass. The islands were behind them, and in a moment they would be in Surfside. The waters all around them began to open up as the ocean loomed large in the distance, tinted with white foam. Beside him, Carellen sighed and lent slightly in to his arm, letting her cheek rest lightly on his shoulder. She was wearing her furs – soft, ginger fox fur that matched the red in her fair hair. It was impractical, even in the winter, but she loved them all the same. She was a Greyjoy now, and there was a standard to be maintained. He let her wrap her fingers around his own and marvelled at the coolness of her skin, even now under the warmth of her coat. As she moved her hand, the black diamond on her finger glinted, for a moment revealing a light, smoky core. She was the third woman to wear it, and he felt it suited her best of all the women he had married. Against her clear, pale flesh the gold band burned more brightly.

The cars pulled up outside the church and one by one, the family emerged in to the shadow it cast on to the street. Victarion was the first to exit, and stood to the side to help his wife. His brother, Balon, was already on the sidewalk. Alannys was gathering the children to her, adjusting the knot on Rodrik's tie, flattening a stay hair on Maron's head, wiping a mark from Theon's face. Only Asha escaped her mother's attentions, as she hid out of sight by her father's side. Victarion chuckled to see it, and winked at the little girl when she spied him. She gave him a gap-toothed grin in return.

There was only one occupant in the remaining car, and he was the last to appear. Euron did not rush for anyone, and would keep even God waiting. He slipped from the car with cigarette in hand, emerging in a cloud of white smoke, as though the touch of the air made his skin burn. Vicatrion would not be surprised if that were true. Never would a man be more out of place than Euron inside a church. He flicked the tail end of his cigarette on to the flagstones, not bothering to stub it out, and grinned at his brother from his one good eye.

Balon raised his hand silently, and at once the family assembled around him. Alyanns took her husband's arm and the pair of them began to ascend the stone steps that led to the mouth of the church. The doors were opened for them as they approached, and Vicatrion watched his brother disappear from view in to the dusky light beyond. In a moment, he had slipped inside also, and the scent of that holy place washed over him like sinking in to water. The air was cold and unmoving, carrying the wisps of prayers and incense, the echoes of hymns long sung. The pews were full, and the congregation turned as one to look at the precession that had entered, bowing their heads slightly as they passed. Perhaps in reverence, perhaps in fear. Either way, it sat uneasily on Vicatrion. They were not the gods here.

Balon led his family to the one empty pew at the very front of the church, and the Greyjoys took their seats. The priest nodded a silent greeting and Balon returned the nod, allowing him to begin. Vicatrion held his wife's hand as the first hymn began, feeling the swell in his chest as the words lapped at his senses and his voice rose in greeting to his Lord.

Afterwards, as they came back to their cars, Vicatrion found his oldest brother waiting for him in his. 'Tell your wife to ride with mine. I need to speak with you' he said curtly, dismissing Carellen with a flick of his wrist. Vicatrion kissed her briefly on the cheek, ignoring the reproachful look in her eyes, and came to sit beside his brother. As the cars drove off, Balon reached in to the compartment in the side of the door and took out one of the fat cigars he found there. He did not offer one to his brother.

'I have a notion' he said as he struck a match, the flare of the sudden flame briefly throwing dark, sharp shadows across the creases of his face.

'But I require your advice. My opinion of this boy Robert has been proven correct. He is a wasteful, arrogant fool who cannot see past his own wants. One of his first great acts, I hear, has been to expand his chain of trashy strip clubs all along South Beach.'

He laughed bitterly, and sucked deeply on the cigar, filling the car with rich, dark smoke. Vicatrion smiled wanly. He had heard the same thing.

'He tells us that he will not change anything, but is happy to do it if it fills his own pockets. Do you remember what our father said, about Aerys?'

'He said less and little, if I remember rightly' replied Victatrion. Quellon had not been an affectionate father, and what little warmth he did have he, had not been wasted on his children. He had spent much of this time attempting to father more sons on a succession of unsuccessful wives, and had allowed Aerys to slowly strip away his liberties as the old man's mind was similarly being stripped. Balon had come to the head of a once great family, brought low by years of bad decisions and betrayal. You would not know it to look at him though.

'He said that Aerys feared us' Balon said coolly, tapping the grey ash from the end of the cigar. 'That was why he kept us down. He took advantage of our father's weaknesses and made us weak too. He made it so we couldn't so much as breathe without his say so. No one spends that much energy subduing a foe unless they fear them.'

'I can believe that' said Victarion darkly. Balon smiled.

'But Robert doesn't fear us. He looks down on us, thinks we're old fashioned, but he definitely doesn't fear us. I saw it in his eyes. He won't keep a strict grasp on us like Aerys did because he underestimates us. To me, that seems like a very poor decision. One, perhaps, that we should exploit.'

Victarion began to laugh.

'Tell me more' he said with a black grin.


	5. Chapter 5

Cat.

She wished her father would have come. If he could see how different she was, he might have made an effort to bridge the gulf between them. It was in the way she spoke, the look behind her eyes, the clothes she wore and even the way she sat, perched, on the edge of her chair. It didn't suit her at all, and without their fathers' presence to give approval, it seemed all the more of a waste.

Lysa didn't seem to mind though. She chirruped happily about the new house, and the endless challenges of remodelling. Cat never knew there were so many choices when it came to marble worktops, and by the dessert course she was beginning to long for the days when Lysa 's only topic of conversation had been Petyr.

She had not seen him for nearly four months. As far as she was aware, no one had. There had been a letter once, addressed in his distinctive hand, that had arrived not long after he had disappeared. She had burnt it unopened, angry that of all the people he had to apologise to, he had chosen her. That was, of course, assuming that it _was_ an apology. Even that she couldn't be sure of. She doubted whether she had ever really known him at all, and swallowed the sadness with a mouthful of forest fruits and cream.

The restaurant was busy, and when Jon suggested they retire to the bar for a quiet drink, Cat happily agreed. They picked a little table near the window and sunk in to thick leather chairs that engulfed them almost entirely. Cat insisted she buy the first round. She already felt uncomfortable that Jon had footed the bill from dinner and didn't want to be any further in his debt. There was a moment of silence as Lysa took her first sip and Cat pounced on it with gusto, eager to steer the conversation in to more interesting territory. She had heard a rumour and she needed to know if it were true.

'Will you take him up on it then? Working with Robert?'

Jon smiled slowly and raised a silver eyebrow, but said nothing.

'But you've always stayed out of the business. It drove Aerys mad. Why the change?'

Jon shrugged elegantly and took a long draw from his glass.

'Robert is capable but he is still a young man. You were there last week, you saw what happened. He needs help, even if he doesn't know it.'

'But you were so adamant. Even my father never managed to tempt you in to getting your hands dirty with him. There are so many other people who could help Robert. His brother…'

'Stannis is a very particular kind of boy' said Jon carefully, cutting her short. 'And he is younger still than Robert. Your father has always been a good friend but he never needed me, despite what he might have said to try and flatter my ego. Robert is the closest thing I have to a son, and he needs me. I have to help him if I can.'

Cat was relieved to hear it. The world had been hanging in a strange half-light ever since Aerys' death. People were starting to take advantage. The police had been watching everyone closely, old friends suddenly disappearing in to the wood work almost as soon as Aerys' body hit the floor. Order had to be restored, quickly, and Robert certainly had the iron fist needed to crack down on some of the loose cannons. But Aerys had been nothing but iron, and it had ended up costing him his sanity and his life. Jon could be the perfect velvet glove to shield the worst of Robert's anger.

She must have been lost in her own thoughts for a moment, because when she looked back up, her sisters hand had come to rest on Jon's. Neither of them seemed to think it was important to mention it, and so she decided not to say anything either. Instead, she found herself glancing uneasily at their interlaced fingers whenever there was a lull in the conversation, and drinking her drinks entirely too quickly.

She had never asked Lysa directly about her relationship with Jon. She wasn't even sure if it _was_ a relationship. She told herself that it would cause too much upset with their father and so she liked to keep a sense of plausible deniability in case he started asking questions. The truth, she knew, was that is made her feel decidedly uncomfortable – and not because of the very obvious age gap between them. Lysa was nearly 19 and an adult in the eyes of the world. Jon was a decent, good man who she trusted.

What made her uneasy was the falseness of it all. Her manner with him was stiff and uncomfortable, as though Lysa was attempting to play a part. Cat remembered the sister of her youth; the pretty girl with the wild hair, a crazy laugh and little denim shorts. She had been careless and carefree. Now, there was a brokenness about her; something she had let go of willingly but that had left a hole nevertheless. It was not just the baby, although Cat could not imagine what that must have been like. They no longer talked like they used to, as sisters, so she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

She blamed herself, for letting the crack between them become a gulf. She blamed their father, for forgetting that he had two daughters and that he should have treated them both the same. And she blamed Petyr, for breaking her sister's heart.

But none of that really mattered now – it was done. Lysa had moved out the day their father fired Petyr, and had not taken one step in her old house since, nor as much as spoken to anyone but Cat. One day, that might change. Cat would forever live in hope.


	6. Chapter 6

Cersei.

'This is ridiculous! Have you completely lost your mind?!'

Her father considered her silently, his face a blank page. His freshly shaven face had a hint of pinkness about it, and his blonde hair was still a little damp from his morning shower. In all other ways though, Tywin was immaculate as usual. He adjusted the knot of his crimson tie and walked past her, towards his study, leaving Cersei glaring at him from the hallway. It took her only a heartbeat though before she was once again perusing him, the sound of her heels clicking quickly along the wooden floor.

'I can't believe that this is what you want. I can't! How can you just stand aside and let it happen?'

Her father had reached the study, and was taking his seat behind the large, carved desk. The maid had neatly laid out his breakfast tray on the table – two slices of toast, a small press of butter, a little pot of honey with a silver spoon. A silver tea pot stood steaming quietly on the side, with one porcelain cup and saucer, and a small jug of cream. The morning paper was folded next to the tray, and the books and ledgers by which Tywin kept track of his business sat equally neatly behind them. There was no computer, nor much of anything that might be considered too modern. Tywin ran things as his father had done, and his father before him. He saw no need to change for changes sake.

Cersei stood opposite the desk as her father began to butter his toast. Still, he remind silent.

'You were Areys' right hand. You should have taken over' she said angrily. 'Not that _boy_. Of all the stupid things to have let happen…'

'By rights, Rheager should have taken over' he said softly, interrupting her. He placed the buttered toast down on the plate and carefully cut it in to triangles.

'But that boy you mentioned went ahead and killed him. So the position was vacant. He took it. It's the law of the jungle, you might say.'

Cersei felt herself becoming angrier, and dug her nails in to the palms of her hands just to stop herself from shouting. He did this just to infuriate her.

'Except we aren't in the jungle' she said venomously. 'Robert is stupid and young and has no experience running a major operation by himself.'

Tywin took a small bite from his toast and ate it silently before continuing.

'He is not by himself though. Jon Arryn has agreed to become his second in command, and a number of Aerys' men have gone over to him. Varys, for one - although that was no surprise. But Pycelle too, and as you know, he is a great friend of ours. Seasoned, experienced men.'

'So what you're telling me is that not only did you not seize power once Aerys died, but you have allowed the new boy to exclude you entirely?'

Tywin continued to eat his breakfast slowly, careful to not let so much as a crumb land on his suit.

'And that really is the problem, don't you think? Robert has no reason to trust me. Most of the time, it was me who made sure Aerys kept him under heel. Robert knows that, or at least he suspects it. The little stunt we pulled near the end of things went some way towards earning his trust again, definitely. That incident with Elia and the children…. Unsavoury but again, it served a purpose. Nevertheless, I highly doubt that Robert holds me in too high esteem just yet. In fact, I tend to think more highly of him because of it.'

Cersei shook her head irritably.

'I still don't understand why you didn't just take it all when you had the chance. Then it wouldn't matter what Robert thought of you. You were right there… Jaime was right there… it would have been so easy.'

Tywin looked at her questionably and poured himself a cup of tea.

'Robert is well liked. The rest of the families might still think he's inexperienced but they do still like him, regardless. He instigated Aerys' removal. Him and the Starks both, they led things. He rallied them, and they can't forget that. We were out of sight, and not long ago we playing for the wrong side. I have had my fill of playing on other people's teams, Cersei. We will be on our own side from now on.'

He stirred in a little of the cream, took a sip, and set the cup back down on the saucer.

'We would not have been welcomed. Robert would have very likely continued his campaign against us, and I have no desire to fight a war. So now, we let him play at being a king and we take our time. He still needs us. I was helping to run this city when he was still in diapers. We will endure, as we always do. Once again Cersei you have failed to see the bigger picture.'

She felt foolish then, although the anger still burned hot within her. As usual, her father made sense, and yet she still felt as though they had been betrayed. The city should be his. _It should be mine _came the thought quietly. She ignored it.

'Robert lost the girl he loved, rather tragically I might add' Tywin was saying idly, looking away and opening his paper.

'An ambitious person might see another vacant position.'

Cersei was blank for a moment, unsure of what he meant. As the realisation dawned, the anger that had continued to brew beneath the surface became white hot again.

'So now I'm a bargaining chip!? Offer me up to get you back on his good side? What do you think I am?! Jaime would never…'

'Your brother' Tywin said, suddenly loudly, still calm, 'is the only one in this family who has remained in a position of trust with Robert. Your brother has shown that he has no qualms in doing what needs to be done for the greater good, and is willing to use any skill at his disposal in order to do it. Your brother remains in Roberts's personal guard because I allow him to. Have no illusions – I will use Jaime just as much as I will use you. Except he is willing to do it.'

_Because he only has to play around with a gun and act like a fool _ she thought bitterly. _He enjoys it. You want me to sell myself…_

'Think about it' said her father, softly again. 'Gain the boy's trust, and if he continues to play at being king, then who better to be a queen? I'm only asking that you be nice to him, and remember your family.'

_It's all I ever do _she thought resentfully.


	7. Chapter 7

Victarion.

Victarions life was made up of small traditions. Church every Sunday, followed by coffee at the little beach café around the corner. Every morning, he took his boat out in to the harbour – come rain or shine. On Wednesdays, he would get takeaway from the little Chinese two blocks from his house. It would always be the same meal. On Friday, he would visit his mother's grave and leave a bunch of yellow roses.

And Thursday meant the evening at his brothers house. The weekly Greyjoy family dinner had existed long before Victarion and would doubtless continue long after him, marching ever onward in an inevitable procession of slightly undercooked meat dishes and bland vegetables. Some traditions were easier to endure than others.

His brother had inherited this home from their father, and had made no concession to comfort or sentimentality. It was a large, sprawling place that had seemed to grow over the years in a rather organic but uneven manner. Various extensions had been made to the sides and the attic, expanding the original building up and out, like a hungry beast, eating up the space around it. Some sections had been rebuilt or knocked down, others left to rot in quiet decay once they were no longer needed. It ran the gamut of dull, sea-foam colours like the ocean under a cloudy sky. Balon did not spend money on anything so frivolous or cosmetic as re-painting. Nevertheless, there was a certain charm to it. It would never be sold. It was tradition.

The food tonight had been passable at least. The turkey had been dry, but at least it was hot and not quite all the flavour had been cooked out of the vegetables. Victarion remembered that it had not always been so grim. As a boy, the house had been filled with the rich smells of roasts and fry ups, grease and salt and spices, fish in batter and pork crackling in its own skin. Every meal left his belly full and his mouth watering. But when there was no money to pay the cooks and the maids, they had not stayed. Some of the older ones had done, out of loyalty, but they had all died now. Balon did not beg the others to return. He would rather suffer this meagre offering than go hunting for some substandard staff who were there just for a paycheck. There was a time when shop keeps would have sent over the best of their stores to the house, just to pay their respects. A Greyjoy only had to walk down the street to be handed bags of groceries, all with the compliments of the owner. Victarion often reflected on the irony of it. When they had been rich, they had never needed to pay for a thing.

Still, the well had not yet run completely dry. There was money left enough for Carellen's furs and Aeron's drinking, for Euron's cigars and Balon's suits. And they had the port.

The Greyjoys had always run the docklands. It was the reason Aerys had not smashed them completely; their connections had made it far easier for him handle the particular imports that kept his business alive. Drugs, cars, girls… whatever he needed to bring in, the Greyjoys had provided. As long as they behaved, Aerys had no reason to oust them. It was how they had survived. But it had soon become apparent that that was all they were going to be allowed to do – survive. Quellon had been happy to accept that. Balon was not.

After dinner, Victarion would have a brandy to help him digest the dinner he had just endured – another ritual, hard to break. He liked to drink it alone, sitting in the high-backed chairs by the bay windows, overlooking the waterfront. Tonight though, he found Euron already in his seat. His dark-haired brother grinned up at him from the gloom, his one eye glinting mischievously.

'Do you smell it, brother?' he asked, cryptically. He was sat low in the chair, his legs spread and his arms loose at his sides. He closed his eye and inhaled deeply.

'It's the smell of change.'

He looked up again and smiled another wide grin. He was half in shadow, half in the orange glow of the street lights.

'Our brother is making plans. Can't you feel it in your blood? It's stirring. Something lost, now reclaimed.'

He licked his lips slowly. Victarion took the seat opposite him, all the while painfully aware that it was the wrong one. There was an expression in his brothers eye that he had not seen for a while, and it brought with it memories he would sooner forget. A dark corner, a knife, the fear so sharp it made his stomach lurch. Euron was older than him, and had always been stronger. He had held him down so easily….

He took a sip and looked away, towards the sea and the comforting rock of the water. He could still feel the eye on him though.

'Don't deny it, it excites you just as much as it does me' the other man chuckled. 'You remember the old days, don't you? You remember what we used to be?'

'I remember five boys. Doing stupid things, pretending to be adults. It didn't end well.'

Euron shrugged and put his hands behind his head, stretching.

'Five, and now four. The way Aeron drinks, it'll be three soon enough. But you know what I mean… After all of that.'

He leant forward then, casting more of his face in to the light. His one remaining eye looked like jet. Smooth, black and featureless. Like a shark.

'I remember. You smiled as you killed him. The man who took my eye. We both smiled as the blood washed over us.'

Victarion remembered. He remembered all of them. He hated himself for that smile; it had betrayed him. Euron smiled. He was not like Euron.

'It will be like that again. And soon. Our wise brother has finally decided to bite the hand that feeds him. I can't wait.'

Victarion took another drink and tried to ignore the fact that his pulse had quickened. Ever since that ride home from the church, he could deny that his thoughts had drifted ever more back to those days. He had been just barely in his twenties, quick to temper, a gun in his hand and no one but Balon had been able to stop him using it. He had been so angry… He thought he was winning back their respect. His family was owed that at least.

'It won't be like before' he managed to say, hoping his voice didn't give him away. 'Only those that need to will die.'

Euron gave a shallow laugh.

'There's a difference?' he asked.


	8. Chapter 8

Sandor.

He waited. He was constantly waiting. At the entrance to a room, at the edge of a table, in corners and in front of closed doors. Always in the shadows, ignored and out of sight. It seemed all he was meant to now was to wait.

He wondered what exactly he was meant to be waiting for. The woman did not exactly move in the same circles he did. Had she done, then he would have known the type of enemy he was supposed to be looking for. He would have seen the shift in the body that betrayed the reach for the gun, or the tone in a voice that signalled death was about to strike. He had learnt their brutal ways – used them himself often enough – so much so, it was second nature to him now. That was the danger he was used to, and it was in that world he felt strongest.

But here, danger did not give itself away so easily. Men didn't fight with guns and fists, here on the other side. She drank in bars where they didn't put the prices on a menu. Hell, she drank in bars that had _menus_. She spoke with the kind of clean handed men who had others to carry their weapons for them. They had another language to his untrained ear; every word familiar but each one obscure. He could read nothing in their soft, shaven faces. When they reached in to their jacket pocket, it was to fish out a lighter for her cigarette, not a gun for her head.

And so he waited. She required him to keep a distance, and that suited them both fine. When you were looking out for nothing, it made no difference how far away you stood. She spoke little and less to him, but he could not fault her for that either. What was she likely to say?

The last time he had seen her, she had been 13 and him a boy of 9. She would not have remembered him, he was sure, although he could recall a tall, slender slip of a girl, already in command even under the very first touch of womanhood. She had gone to New York after that, and it was only her brother who ever came back to Miami with his father. When she started to visit again, their paths had never crossed. They moved in different circles, after all.

She was getting ready for some event. He didn't have to go with her, thankfully, and so he hadn't bothered to listen when she told him where. There would be enough of her father's men there to do the job once she was arrived. But until then, once again, he was required to wait.

There were worse places to do it in, he reflected as he sat on the silk backed dining chair, surrounded by books, marble figurines and the gentle scent of roses. The house was grander than anything he had seen before. It put the Targaryen hotel to shame easily. Aerys must have been rich, but he kept his home like a fortress, and as clinical as a mausoleum. Tywin had never been afraid to display his wealth; it was stamped across the house in the lion heads carved across the mantle place, the gold plate on the china, the carpet as soft as butter under foot. But it was still all armour nonetheless.

He was contemplating getting out his tobacco tin to prepare a swift cigarette when he heard footsteps above him. He rose quickly, driven by instinct, from the reception room to the hallway, and around to where the stairs came down. He hoped it was an intruder – some faceless menace that he could end quickly in a spray of red. It would be so easy. He felt the tang of copper in his mouth as his heart began to quicken, and the familiar weight of his gun slipped easily in to his hand before he could even think about it. He was about to take the first of the stairs when, suddenly, the figure was revealed and his hand began to rise.

She laughed.

'I don't think my father will pay you if you kill me' she said as she descended. She was wearing a deep green dress that skimmed the floor and fell in waves as she walked. It was tight around her hips and left her arms and shoulders bare, revealing pale, cream skin. Her hair was down, flowing like the skirt of her dress, and shining. Sandors arm hung half raised and he realised with sudden alarm that his finger was still on the trigger. He slipped it away quickly, snapping the safety catch on just to be sure. As she glided past him, he heard her chuckle again and caught a wisp of her scent.

'Did you think I was a burglar?' she teased. She was standing in the hallway still, adjusting her earrings in the mirror.

'I heard footsteps. I had to check' he said sullenly. He was aware she was watching him from her reflection. He did his best not to meet her eye.

'I suppose I should be thankful really' she was saying. 'At least I know you're doing your job.'

She turned around towards him, leaning back on the sideboard.

'Perhaps you could be a little less trigger happy though, in the future.'

He looked out from behind the curtain of his hair and saw her smiling, although there was no warmth with it. He nodded silently.

'Glad to hear it. Well, lock up after yourself will you? There's a good boy.'

She turned on her heel and strode purposefully towards the door, disappearing in to the warm, inviting night and to the car beyond. He waited for a few seconds more before following her, obediently.


	9. Chapter 9

Cat.

Their table had been set up in the centre of the room, near to the front of the stage. A conspicuous ring had been left around them, marking them as separate from the other diners. The light was low, and coloured purple, violet and indigo – the colours of the night. Across the tables, tea lights shone in domes of stained glass, giving an ethereal appearance to an otherwise very earthy display of flesh.

The evening's entertainment had begun as a parade of silken-clad women took to the stage to dance. Soon, they were all but naked except for the jewels they wore across their breasts and necks. Under the light, their skins changed colour like a parade of chameleons. Cat was not a prude – she watched with faint curiosity as their lithe bodies twisted across one another, admiring them at times – but she could not help but feel that it was entirely inappropriate for a business meeting. She was beginning to understand that Robert's idea of business was not her own.

She was, it seemed, not alone. Around the circle table, her father had his back to the stage and had made no effort to turn. Jon had had turned his own chair towards Robert, so that he might better hear him she supposed, but also that the stage was now out of his eye line. The most comical reaction though had been from Stannis. He had had the unfortunate luck to have sat almost directly in front of the stage, and had stoically refused to move once the dance had started. He remained as a statue, still as stone, his eyes fixed resolutely on a point somewhere beyond the stage. Cat hardly saw him blink, but noted the slow grind of his jaw as he endured the spectacle. Only Edmure and Robert seemed to be enjoying the show for what it was. She laughed silently in to her wine at her brother's enraptured expression.

Any attempt at continuing discussions was apparently useless now. Robert had closed that portion of the evening, even as Jon and her father continued to try and pull him back to more important matters. Cat could have told them before they began that nothing productive was likely to be decided in a burlesque club, but Robert had insisted they all come to opening night. Still, she admired them for at least trying to persevere.

When one dance ended, and a fresh bout of women began, she made her excuses and slipped quietly away from the table. The club was decadently adorned, with velvet and silk hung across the walls and champagne flowing freely from behind the bar. Golden gilded statues stood in the corners and under arches, in shapes of naked women and savage beasts. The air was heavy under the heat of so many bodies. And as ever, in the shadows, moved the men in black. Watching.

Cat sought refuge from the sensual onslaught at the cocktail bar in the far corner, and ordered herself a drink. An hour or so more and she would take her leave. She would be in bed soon. She could feel the soft mattress calling her.

At her side, a man had taken a seat. She felt him glance at her but he didn't say anything and so she continued to sip her drink quietly. It was only when she happened to return the glance in his direction that she realised who he was. Why he hadn't said hello was a little baffling. He had obviously known it was her. She rectified his mistake.

'You look as out of place as I am' she said brightly. 'Can I buy you a drink?'

Eddard looked at her from only the corner of his eye, and did not linger. He shook his head and indicated the half drunk beer he had in his hand. She thought she saw the ghost of an apologetic smile brush his mouth. She didn't want to be deterred, but she could think of nothing to say. Awkwardly, they sat in silence for a few minutes more as she scrambled around for a word or two to string together for his benefit. All she could see though where the faces of his dead family, floating around between them like spectres. Eventually, after more agonising minutes of silence, she began to get annoyed at herself. She turned in her chair, her whole body towards him and ghosts. There was nowhere to hide.

'Do you want to get out of here?'

'God, yes.'

They walked for a while still in silence, but there was a different feel to it now they were outside, alone. It didn't seem as forced, as if they had somehow placed it there deliberately rather than by accident. Either one of them could break it whenever they felt like. Cat could still sense the ghosts though whenever she glanced towards him. They wreathed him like a shroud. He must have felt them too. How could he not?

'My brother talked about you once' he said abruptly, breaking their easy quiet. She looked at him but he had not turned to her. They kept walking.

'Really?'

She didn't mean it to come out that way. It sounded too eager. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

'Yes. Only once, but that was more than most girls got.'

He smiled clumsily, but still could only glance at her.

'Well, I mean…. Not that there were a lot of girls…. I just….'

She watched him stumble for the right words for a moment, before offering him a lifeline.

'It's ok. I didn't know him long, but I was under no illusions.'

He looked at her properly then, and she smiled, eager to encourage him. He did not look away, but he didn't smile again either.

'But I knew him' he said. 'And he liked you. If things had been different…'

'We can't think like that' she said softly. 'That future is gone. We don't know how it would have ended.'

He bit his lip thoughtfully and turned away from her again. The silence fell back between them and they walked in it for a little longer.

'I'm sorry' she said, from nowhere. It was months too late, and she had seen him so many times in between, it seemed strange to say it now. But she had suddenly realised that she had never said it before, and that she needed to.

'I really am. I'm so sorry.'

He twisted his lips together as though he were trying to hold something in; some word, some thought. He stopped walking. She stopped too.

'It's not your fault' he said quietly. 'You have no reason to say sorry.'

He sniffed, took a breath and turned to her. Whatever he'd been battling, he'd won.

'Thank you anyway.'

She nodded in acknowledgement and they continued their walk in the stillness, a trail of ghosts following behind them.


	10. Chapter 10

**Warning: **Some sexual content.

Cersei.

She stood in the alley way, trying to avoid looking at the ground, watching the night rushing in. The last slice of daylight was quickly disappearing over the horizon, and with it, the heat of the day was leaving the city. She felt a shiver, and wished she had brought her jacket. The dress she wore left her legs exposed and she could feel gooseflesh prickling the skin. But then again, she hadn't expected to have been kept waiting.

Impatiently, she began to tap her heel against the brick wall she leant on, beating out a sharp, staccato rhythm. It helped with the chill, but not with her mood. Her absence would be noticed soon. She would need to make a better excuse than simply needing the bathroom. Her father was already annoyed that she had dressed so provocatively for such a formal dinner. She didn't care. It was quickly becoming the only thing in her life that she could control, and she would dress as she goddamned pleased. She grinned wickedly at the memory of his face as she had sashayed in to the restaurant, late, in the tightest, shortest dress she could find.

The excitement she had felt when she first arrived back in Miami seemed like a strange and distant memory now. It had not been the victory parade she had envisaged. The world had not rolled out the red carpet for her. It was as if she had arrived too late, and the party was over. The clean up was nearly finished and the city had continued on without her, leaving her with a hungry urge and no way to purge it. Her father was moving at a glacial pace as far as she was concerned. Her friends, such as they were, had either left the city with Aerys' death or were else keeping a quiet distance. It seemed that her father was right – their name did still carry a taint. There was nothing of any interest to occupy or distract her, and she found herself forced to attend an endless, dull procession of dinners and parties, all full of equally dull people whose opinion she apparently had to care about. She found herself longing for New York again, and its relaxed, lazy evenings. She knew, in her heart, that it wasn't really New York she missed. It was freedom.

A voice roused her from her thoughts, and a strong, familiar hand found its way up her arm and to her throat. Eagerly, she allowed him to cup her face and turn her towards him. Jaime breathed quickly, as though he had be running, and she could almost taste him already. She grinned and he smothered her mouth with his own, kissing her deeply.

Her hands came upwards, fingers trailing along the line of his jaw, the muscles of his neck, the tender flesh at the front of his throat. She felt the growl he made as she gently caught his lip between her own and bit lightly. He pressed in to her, backing her up against the wall, forceful enough to make the skin of her shoulders graze along the brick. One hand went to her hair, pulling softly at the nape of her neck, making her arch her head back. The other reached down to her hips, down her thigh, to the hem of her skirt. His fingers trailed little circles on the softness of her inner thigh, and she opened her legs for him, instinctively. Her moan made him laugh and so she bit his lip again, harder this time, causing the same moan to escape him. In a second he was pushing up against her, in her, his breath ragged in her ear. She pushed back against his fingers, needing more but being left achingly short. She wanted more than this, and better. The ally way was too cold and damp and the world was dangerously close by.

She pushed him away, and he withdrew from her with a curious, lopsided look. He tried to kiss her again but she held him back still. Resigned, he gave a groan and tried instead to nuzzle against her neck. She allowed him that, and ran her fingers through his hair as he rested against her. His voice was muffled when he spoke.

'You look so good' he complained, running his hands up her sides and down again.

'It's been too long.'

He was not wrong. Although they had seen each other a lot over the last few weeks, their time alone together had been frustratingly short.

'And whose fault is that?' she said accusingly. 'Robert keeps you too busy for me now.'

He sighed and nuzzled closer to her, beginning to kiss her neck lightly.

'I did that for us' he said between kisses. 'You know that. Don't start.'

She closed her eyes, wetting her lips and sinking in to the heat that spread from where his lips touched her. It would be so easy to lose herself to it; to have him, right there, now. She opened her eyes and tried to focus.

'That was then. Now, you stay for the glory. Don't pretend. You love how everyone looks at you.'

He withdrew then, and brought his face close to hers. He kissed her with his eyes open.

'Maybe' he said teasingly. She could see the lie in his expression, but she didn't contradict him. She had no time now for that game. Time was passing and they both needed to get back. Her own issue was more pressing.

'Dad wants me to seduce him. He said as much, and now he's engineering meetings with him.'

'I noticed, and Robert has. He isn't as stupid as they say. He takes great pleasure in telling me' Jaime chuckled, and tried to kiss her again.

Cersei was annoyed by that. She needed to make him understand. Then he wouldn't be laughing at her.

'And if I fuck him? Will that be just as funny?'

Her brothers expression darkened then, and she felt his fingers dig possessively in to her flesh. It excited her far more than his soft kisses had.

'Don't joke' he said sullenly.

'I'm not' she answered acidly. 'I'm serious. He won't let it drop. He wants to win him over , and he'll do it with money and with me.'

She could feel the anger in him now and it made her smile. She leant forward, kissing him slowly, mixing that anger with lust. The two were often so similar. It lasted only a moment though before he broke away, his expression still thunderous.

'I won't let him touch you' he swore vehemently. It was Cersei's turn to chuckle now.

'Maybe it won't be such a bad thing' she said casually. 'We'd be closer. If I'm with Robert, then I'd also be with you…'

It was something that she had thought about before. Once the initial sting of her father's idea had waned, she had found herself contemplating the meaning behind it. Small pools of light had started to creep in to her reasoning. Robert was not an unattractive man. In fact, she found him very appealing. The strength of him reminded her of Jaime, although he was a much darker, harder version of him. Rougher, untested, untamed. He had power too, which was an undeniable attraction. The possibility of slipping in to such a position of influence was exciting, and would certainly break her out of the deadening monotony of her life so far. And Jaime would be there. She would see him every day. She was beginning to realise that the only real objection she had to the whole idea was that it had not been hers. Still, try and she might, that hard fact stuck in her throat, and made her fight it. She was not yet sold.

Jaime kissed her again, hard, breaking her from her thoughts. When he pulled away, his eyes were wide and fiery.

'I don't think I could stand that' he said gravely. 'You should be with me…'

She smiled sadly, a genuine smile and a genuine sadness. This song had been sung before. They knew all the words. The tune never changed.

'I'm yours' she said earnestly. 'Whatever happens, I am always yours. Remember that.'

She meant it.


	11. Chapter 11

Sandor.

The man's voice was a rasp, no doubt struggling under that bright kind of pain that came with broken ribs, a fractured leg and missing teeth. Sandor had never experienced that particular pain first hand, although he had inflicted it often enough. He watched the man as he twisted on the floor with a silent curiosity. To see how other men wore pain had always been a source of fascination for him. This particular man was not coping well.

'I don't know what you mean' he lied pathetically, between wet, red gasps. He tried to sit up but Lorch placed the heel of his foot against his shoulder and pushed him roughly back to the ground. Sandor watched blankly as the man groaned and shook under the effort of breathing. There was blood running from his ear, a scarlet tear running down his face.

'You're an idiot' said Lorch simply. 'But if you want to drag this out, the fine. It'll be your funeral. Literally.'

He had his gun in his hand, and there was an ominous click as he took off the safety. It was only a tiny sound, but the man's eyes shot open and stared wildly in to the gloom. He began to stammer incomprehensibly, reaching upwards with torn hands.

Sandor wondered if he should pity him. There was a time, not so long ago, when he would have done. Now, as he looked down in to his panicked eyes, he knew that he couldn't. He was too familiar with pain; intimately, deeply familiar. He did not need to take on anyone else's. Now, there was only the curiosity, and more often than not, the inevitable disappointment of watching them brake. Sandor had not broken.

'I…I…it was only a couple of grams….I can give him the money….please…'

Lorch laughed coldly and looked at Sandor with a smirk.

'You hear that Clegane? A minute ago he didn't know what we were talking about! Amazing.'

Sandor glanced from Lorch to the man but said nothing. He ran his tongue over the ridges at the burnt corner of his mouth, regarding them both emptily. Lorch turned back to the crumpled figure and squatted down so he was level to him, eye to swollen eye.

'Ok, well listen to me carefully. This is the situation. Our boss doesn't give a shit if you sell a few grams on the side. Hell, you could start a whole new import operation and he wouldn't care. Tywin Lannister shits money; he doesn't need yours. But, unfortunately for you, Robert Baratheon does care. And our boss has decided that he really wants to impress Robert Baratheon so, whatever you say or do from now on is kind of irrelevant. Do you understand?'

The man looked blankly from his bruised, broken face as his jaw opened and closed uselessly. The truth of his situation was beginning to dawn on him, and he looked up to Sandor beseechingly. Finally, he found his tongue.

'Please, tell him. You have to tell him! I didn't mean it. It was just a little bit. I'll never do it again. I've learnt, ok? I know now. I'll tell everyone, they'll all listen. Stop him, please.'

He gasped again, clutching at his chest. Blood ran down his chin to join the drip from his ear. His hands clenched in spasms, and his eyes fluttered with the effort of trying to stay up. Sandor felt his lip curl in disgust. This was not how a man carried himself in the face of his own end.

'No use asking him' chuckled Lorch, standing back up. 'Didn't you hear me? I said, it doesn't matter.'

There was no need for this, Sandor thought. Lorch was right, it made no difference what the man said now, he had been dead two days ago. The rats had been busy in the days after Aerys' death, nibbling at the corpse, getting fat with no one to keep their numbers down. Robert had wasted no time in organising their demise, and Tywin had stepped deftly in to the gap to execute the order. In truth there seemed little point, to Sandor's mind at least, in having them all killed. The man on the floor was a small time hood, no threat to anyone. His leaving the world would cause no great rift to it. But sense did not often come in to things when you started handing out death, and Sandor had had no cause to argue when he was given his new assignments. The opportunity to be back here again at the sharp end of the stick, for a few hours at least, was too good to pass up.

The woman had had him trailing around the city in her bloodless wake for days now. He needed to be here, where the heat was thick and he couldn't smell her any more. It made no sense to him that he should be deprived of this, what he was made for, and yet be forced in to her most private moments where he really did not belong.

She read sometimes, up in her room, and he could hear the music she picked to listen to. Sometimes, he heard her sing. He had seen her, bare-faced and undone, at the start of her day, before the world made it's intrusion. He knew the drinks she liked, the meals she ate, the way her hair looked when she took it down. And all of these gifts she gave to him without hesitation, as if it didn't matter at all. He realised, of course, that it was him that didn't matter. He was allowed to look at her because he didn't count. Not to a woman like her.

Half aware, he slipped back in to the room that smelt of blood and fear; all the scents familiar to him and the security they brought. The man was crying now, wetness mixing with blood and spit, and he had given up trying to hold himself upright against the broken bones. Lorch had his gun drawn, hanging idly towards the man's head, laughing.

Sandor looked between the two - from the man broken and sobbing to the other, too gleeful in his work, and he felt the bile in the back of his throat. The charade had gone on long enough. Quietly, swiftly, he drew the gun, took aim and pulled the trigger. The sobbing stopped abruptly with a dull, damp thud. Lorch turned to him with a petulant look.

'Aww c'mon man. He had more to give!'

Sandor unscrewed the silencer from the end of his gun, still hot to the touch, and put it back in his pocket. The gun slid neatly back in to his holster.

'No. He really didn't.'


	12. Chapter 12

Victarion.

His wife had picked them a house near the sea, and for that alone, Victarion was thankful. The first wife had insisted on something gawdy and expensive over on the mainland and Victarion knew the day he saw it that the marriage was doomed. The second wife had been happy to live at the family home in Bay Harbour, and for a while, that had suited them all well enough. But his brother's wife had proven particularly fertile and by the time baby Theon arrived, the old sprawling house was beginning to seem somewhat less sprawling. When Carellen made it a condition of their marriage that they move out in to a house of their own, he happily accepted.

It did not, however, mean that he was entirely free from the fruits of Balon's over-productive loins. Carellen liked to invite Alannys and her brood to the house whenever Balon was otherwise occupied and sometimes, Victarion suspected, when he wasn't. He could not quite understand why his wife insisted on it; she and her sister in law were not particularly close, despite the time they spent together. Alannys was older and already forgetful, untidy often and with very little to say for herself that wasn't to do with her family. He wondered what they managed to talk about, for hours and hours, as they drank their coffee politely. Perhaps they exchanged stories of what it was like to marry a Greyjoy.

It was not that Victarion was not fond of his family; he respected Balon, Aeron made him smile, even Euron…. Well, they were family and he was duty bound to feel a certain kind of love for them all. But he was far more comfortable dealing with adults. Rodrick was a man of 19 now, and Maron nearly 17, but still they seemed like children to his eye. They were untested, born in to a world hung in a balance; neither the true hardship of his grandfathers' day nor the comfort he could remember as a boy. Neither had ever taken a man's life. Neither had had cause to. Victarion pitied them almost as much as he envied them. If Balon was serious in his plan, then they would all be tested soon enough.

And at least he could have a semblance of a conversation with them both. The little ones were incapable of even that. The girl had a spark about her though, he could admit that. Her coal black hair was never tidy, however much her mother combed and pulled at it, and her scruffy knees and gapped toothed grin said that she would never be a polished lady like his wife. He was glad of that. A Greyjoy should not be too genteel. It spoke of laziness, and too much vanity. The other families were too obsessed with money and apparence. He had heard of the plans for the re-opening of the old Targaryen hotel. A champagne soaked kiss to swell Robert's ego, nothing more, and all bankrolled by his new best friend Tywin. It was sickening. His family had always known that wealth was only transient. It did not buy the things that truly mattered – the things that had mattered to the old generation. Respect. Loyalty. Honour. Even in a house that was decaying around him, Balon still carried himself with more dignity than all the others combined. Asha had that same sense about her, even at 9 years old. He hoped her mother would not succeed in brushing it out of her.

Yet that afternoon, the little girl was playing somewhere out of sight. It was her brother, the youngest of the four, who sat cross legged on the floor in front of him, observing him quietly with large blue eyes. Even from behind his newspaper, Victarion could feel himself being watched. It was very off putting.

'Can you not find something to play with? In another room maybe…?'

The boy did not remind him of Balon, but there was definitely a family resemblance there somewhere. It had taken him a while, but one day Victarion had put his finger on it. There had been another boy once, with the same big eyes and a crooked little smile. That boy had died, and often Victarion could barely remember what he looked like any more. But when Theon smiled he saw the ghost of his dead brother clear as day.

Victarion sighed and laid the paper down, resigned that he would get no further. Apparently, this was all the invitation Theon needed to scramble quickly up his uncles' chair. Victatrion winched as his newspaper crumpled under the weight of the little body. He gave a tight smile. The boy beamed back at him.

'And you want… what exactly?'

Theon shrugged wordlessly and took the opportunity to invade Victation's personal space even further, resting his head against his chest and holding on tight with small, sticky hands. Victarion hesitated before giving him a half-hearted pat on the back, stifling a small groan. The boy was always far too clingy for his liking. It was strange, seeing that his mother gave him far too much attention most of the time. Maybe it was because he was the youngest. Maybe it was because she was getting older, and knew she would have no more children. Whatever the reason, there seemed no need for the boy to be this way.

A gentle laugh from the doorway made him turn. Carellen came towards them both with a smile on her lips and her eyes soft.

'Look how sweet you both are' she cooed, leaning forward to stroke the boy's hair. Victarion seized the moment, lifting the child up out of his lap and thrusting him towards her as though it were toxic.

'Here. Take him. He's making a mess on my jacket.'

Carellen eagerly gathered the little boy up to her and kissed him lightly on the head. Victarion noted the faraway look in her eyes.

'You're such a grumpy uncle' she chided kindly. 'He just wants a hug.'

Victarion tried to resurrect his newspaper, but it was crumpled beyond rescue.

'Then he should go to his mother' he said tersely. 'Or better yet, stop wanting hugs.'

Carellen managed to tear herself away from the child in her grasp long enough to give him a withering look.

'He's 4' she remarked curtly. 'He's allowed to want a hug. Lord knows he won't get any from his dad.'

Vicatrion rolled his eyes and stood. The conversation was quickly growing stale. He knew that look she had. Carellen had made no secret of the fact that she wanted children of her own. Victarion had made her no promises, and for a little while, there had been a quiet equilibrium between her desires and his apathy. Lately though, she had become more vocal in her wants and it was getting repetitive. For a time, he had wanted to ban the children from the house completely, as if stopping her seeing them might stop her wanting one. But of course, he couldn't blind her to all the children and babies in the world. He was running out of options.

He did what he could at that moment and kissed her quickly before any more words could tumble from her mouth. He enjoyed it too until he felt the warm little body still between them, and the moment was well and truly lost.


	13. Chapter 13

Cat.

She knew Edmure was hiding something from her. It might be her father too for all she knew, but he was a much more seasoned liar and she had spent most her life trying to crack his code with no success. Edmure, on the other hand, was much less adept and so she decided to focus all of her attention on him, the weak link.

It had started with a phone call taken out of the room, and a shifty look whenever his cell rang. The last time Robert had called a meeting, he had made some rather weak excuse for her not to go. When she had questioned her father about it, he said there was no need for all three of them to be there. Edmure needed the experience, he said with a smile. She would be more useful running the club. It was a lie thinly veiled, and the undertone smacked of something unsavoury. Cat was the oldest child, the most dedicated, the most capable. She took pride in those things, but not pleasure. It was her duty. Nevertheless, she couldn't help but feel resentful at the thought that she might be cast aside in favour of her brother. In the end, she found her fears were unfounded. As it was, she kind of wished they hadn't been.

She was having a late breakfast; orange juice, croissants, fruit and yoghurt, all eaten on the balcony overlooking the beach. The apartment was silent, just the breeze and the ever increasing heat as the day opened up to her. She had nothing to do until the afternoon, and time alone was rare. She enjoyed the stillness.

When the doorbell rang, she thought about ignoring it. She did, for a little while. But when it rang again, she felt the inevitable pull. The voice in her head muttered something under its breath and she knew what it wanted. She walked to the door slowly, secretly hoping that this intrusion on her peace had taken the hint and gone. She was so convinced that it would be that she didn't even bother to check who it was over the intercom. So when she pulled open the door, she was unprepared for the laughing grey eyes and the icy fist that hit her right in the stomach.

He looked older. She shook her head to try and focus herself, and looked again. Of course he was older. But this was more than just the passing of time. He wore the same charcoal suit, but a more expensive version. The emerald chip in his tie pin was bigger, and now matched with a splash of little diamonds. He had grown a sharp little beard, trimmed in to a goatee. His hair was shorter.

She regained herself. The hit to her core had frozen her temporarily but her anger was melting it quickly. The voice in her head was a shout, fighting the impulse to slam the door in his face. It was deafening.

'Cat' he said with a smile, as if he had seen her only yesterday. It lingered on his mouth for far too long. Instinctively, as the voice cheered on, she almost moved aside to let him in. At the last moment, she stopped herself. The small joy she got from his fleeting look of disappointment was far too enjoyable. She chided herself.

'Petyr' she answered steadily, standing her ground. 'You're back?'

He gave a mock bow, dipping his head.

'At your service, m'lady' he grinned. 'For a week or so now. I had expected to see you sooner, but all I keep getting is your brother or your father. Not quite the same.'

Cat smiled with her lips tight together, a thin imitation of pleasure. She wanted desperately to ask him more questions but could not quite face the smugness that would invariably follow his answers. He offered them anyway.

'I stayed away for the trouble' he was saying blithely, leaning against the doorframe. 'But a new regime needs new blood, and Robert asked for me personally. Your father must have recommended me. Obviously I made an impression.'

There were so many things wrong with that statement that she had to remind herself that he had been her friend. _He was good to me_ she repeated to herself slowly. _Somewhere, that boy is still there._

'My father isn't here' she said carefully. 'He didn't say you were coming.'

Petyr smiled again, inspecting his fingernail casually.

'Oh I know. I just thought I'd try on the off-chance. Well, no matter! I shall see him later tonight.'

For the briefest of moments, his gaze fell from her eyes and across her body. A well-known uneasiness took root in her, but still she obeyed the little voice.

'Well it was nice to see you' she said courteously, already moving to shut the door. The man did not move.

'Is Lysa around?' he asked matter-of-factly.

The door stopped in its path, and she looked at him. The voice screamed vainly but she knew at once it had lost. For the longest moment, she started blankly at his laughing eyes and could think of nothing, nothing, nothing that could come close to express what she was feeling. The voice continued it's screaming until finally, it was all she could hear.

'No, she isn't' was all she managed to say. Anything more would have been a trial. Before she could betray herself any further, she shut the door right in his smiling face.


	14. Chapter 14

Cersei.

He was waiting for her when her car pulled up, standing alone at the doors, dark against the bright lights of the foyer. She was impressed with that.

He walked down the steps to meet her, opening the car door and offering her a hand. She took it with a cautious smile. It would do no good to let him know that he had pleased her so soon. As they ascended the steps back towards the grand hotel, she slid her arm through his and allowed her hand to rest against his forearm. Even under the sleeves of his suit, she could feel the strength in his arm, as though she had wrapped herself around a rock. It was reassuring.

He had spared no expense in the re-opening. The lobby was transformed from the sterile marble she remembered in to a smooth, elegant display of opulent gemstone hues and thick, luxurious fabrics. She saw her father's influence across the span of it; in every elegant curve and flourish, from the quartz scattered marble under her feet and the crystal chandeliers above her head. Robert might live in this place now, but it was her father who owned it. It was a delightful thought, and she smiled at her own cleverness before lamenting that she couldn't share it.

She had carefully managed her arrival so that the party was already well underway by the time he led her in to the ballroom. As the doors were opened for them, she was met with a sea of familiar faces and she carefully took note of every one of them.

_So here's where they've all been hiding _she thought dryly as she surveyed them, laughing and relaxed, as if they had always belonged. _All our old friends, basking in Roberts glory._

As they made their entrance, she made sure to look them all in the eye as she passed.

_I see you_ she hoped her expression said. _I see you, and I remember. _

She remained at his side as the lines of people began to flow towards him, all glad hands and congratulations. She watched him glow under their compliments, unsure if he knew that most of their words were empty. She found herself starting to harbour a little fascination for him; something soft under the cool detached manner in which she had so far regarded him. It was so novel to watch someone play this game without quite knowing the rules. She was used to watching the polished, skilled moves of a master player. It was almost endearing. Almost.

The real power was situated across the way. Her father had taken a table, with Varys and Pycelle in close attendance. The younger brother, Stannis, was refusing drinks while that slippery old man Jon Arryn arched over him. He had brought the simpering Tully girl with him, and Cersei was quick to note how many people were avoiding the pair of them. She could not begin to fathom the strangeness of that relationship. What could either of them be trying to gain?

She looked for Jaime but she could never quite catch him. She knew he was stalking her somewhere, but the room was large and full and he really was very good at moving unseen. She had no doubt he was watching her, but whenever she looked, all she kept seeing was the other one. The boy with the scarred face.

He was never too far from her these days, but he had proven surprisingly good at his new post and he kept his mouth shut for the most part. She hardly ever needed to correct him, and she had no doubt that he would end a man's life at her command - all admirable qualities in a bodyguard. The scars were a problem, there was no denying it, but there was something fearsome in his disfigured face that she could probably use to her advantage. Apparently, he had a reputation. She couldn't say she was surprised.

There was a shift at her side, a subtle change in pressure that brought her back in to the room. Robert's arm had slipped from hers and was moving around her back with an unfamiliar delicately. She could feel the warmth of his hand as it skimmed across the open back of her dress, coming to rest at the dip between her shoulder blades. Then, with a move she could only assume was well practiced, he pressed the flat on his thumb against her skin and ran it slowly down the curve of her spine. She kept her eyes forward, stubbornly keeping her mouth shut. Even so, as his hand came to rest at the base of her back, a small sigh escaped her. She knew he had heard; the grin on his face was proof enough.

She couldn't shift away from him - there were too many people who would notice -but she knew already that she didn't really want to. It was such a simple touch, yet breathtakingly brazen. No one but Jaime had ever dared touched her like that, and never in front of so many people. It was a strange and heady mix, and it was threatening to undermine her. She glanced about nervously but no one seemed to be taking any notice. It made no sense. How could they fail to notice? Her whole body was on fire.

He leant in to her and whispered, and she was painfully aware of how close his mouth was.

'You turn a pretty shade of red, did you know? I like it.'

'It's hot' she said simply. It was not a lie, not as such. He continued to grin.

'I didn't know it was so easy to make you blush' he said quietly. 'I would have tried to do it sooner.'

She bristled at that, and pulled away with a jerk. She didn't care about the eyes then.

'Aww now, don't be like that!'

He was still grinning, and she could feel the fire dying with every second that it stayed plastered on his arrogant, handsome face. Something inside her felt like screaming at him for ruining it. The other part of her was screaming at herself for feeling that way.

'I want a drink' she said calmly, feeling the last flicker of the flame as it spluttered out. The hollowness that it left was too disconcerting and so she ignored it. She held his eye steadily, daring him to challenge her.

'Wine' she said briskly. 'Red.'

He turned away, but not before giving her a last little parting shot in the form of a sly wink. She didn't watch him leave, searching again for Jaime, needing to see something familiar, anything to anchor on to. But all she saw was the bobbing, empty faces with their superficial laughter and the sullen, scarred face watching her from the corner, quietly.


	15. Chapter 15

Cat.

It was the same room. The décor had changed, the walls repainted and the carpet relayed, but the windows betrayed it. She remembered the view. She had looked on it before, the night he had kissed her without warning and she had nearly slapped him for it. Later, he had died here. She found herself looking for some kind of mark, a sign, a monument to what had transpired. But of course, there was nothing. The room hid its bloody history under a vibrant new face, like fresh ice over a muddy pond. Just one little crack and it would all come spilling out.

Everyone was doing their best to ignore it. The wine was flowing like a flood, drowning them all in the easy relaxation of drunkenness. All around her, they glittered and twirled, danced and groped, sung and laughed. The great and the powerful of the city had emerged from under the long winter of Aerys' reign and were intent on wrestling a summer from the waste he had left. It all seemed so promising.

But her mind could not fully relinquish its grip on the practical. She had trained it that way, but yet even so, she wished she could relax once in a while. She had an urge to drink too much, to put her memories and her reason under the tide and surrender to that unique gift for frivolity that Edmure and Lysa had always so blithely exhibited.

Instead, she found herself constantly noticing the little details, recalling facts, studying faces. She saw the people who had not given themselves over to the spirit of the night, and they told a story all on their own. She searched them all for a hint of understanding. Did they remember too? Were they as uncertain as she was, dancing across this frozen pond with the blackness so close underneath?

She did not see him until he was in front of her, and the small joy she felt told her that she must have been looking for him without realising. And she felt humbled, to have presumed that she alone had the monopoly on sadness, here of all places.

He did not say anything, but took her hand and led her out in to the dance floor. It was only when he had her by the waist and they began to move that he finally said a word to her.

'We danced here before, under less happy circumstances. I hope you don't mind, but I wanted to make some better memories.'

His hands were still awkward on her, stiff as wood as he moved and with no gracefulness. But there was a strength to them now that had not been there before. He led this time.

'I remember' she said, smiling.

Silence threatened to descend again, but she would not let it.

'So tell me' she said, casting around for a topic to use. 'What do you know about Robert and Tywin's daughter?'

It was not the best subject perhaps, but her curiosity had been pricked ever since the pair of them had begun being seen together. She peered past Eddards shoulder to where Robert and the golden haired woman were standing, surrounded in a sea of adoring faces. She was as beautiful as any woman Cat had ever seen, but her look was less than inviting. She regarded the people around her with a smile as empty as the glass that sat idly in her hand. Eddard shrugged.

'He's keen on her, I know that much. And she flatters him. But it's her father's doing, not hers. Anyone can see that. I doubt Robert cares though. Why would he complain?'

She could sense what he had left unsaid; Robert no longer confided in him as he used to. She knew at once she had been silly to bring it up, but inquisitiveness and a desire to keep him talking had gotten the better of her. Here was another loss he had had to bare, and she had reminded him of it.

'I'm sorry' she found herself saying yet again. 'It must be difficult, not being so close to him now.'

To her surprise, he smiled. It did not seem as haunted as it used to. Perhaps she had read him wrongly.

'Robert will always be a friend of mine' he said, looking away and down at his feet as he negotiated their steps. 'We may have our disagreements, but I will always be there for him.'

She laughed at his inelegance - she hoped not unkindly.

'I'm trying my best' he scolded her with an indignant look, although the smile on his lips betrayed his real feelings. 'Hold on, let me try something.'

As the music stirred to a subtle crescendo, he suddenly spun her around, his hand under her shoulders and the other, clasping hers tightly. With an unexpected and surprising grace, he dipped her backwards and she saw the world upside down for a moment before he pulled her back up right. It was all over in a second, but her heart had not had quite enough time to recover and it beat hard against her chest. Laughter burst from her in fits of giggles.

He was looking right at her.

She stopped, caught by the sudden seriousness in his face. They were still, frozen in the midst of their dance, and she became aware of all the places their bodies made contact. His hand holding hers. The other, still on her waist. Her stomach against the jut of his hip. One foot, side by side to his.

And still he looked right at her.

She broke first, glancing away from his stone grey gaze to the floor, and with it, the moment was gone. They began to dance again, just as slow and clumsy as before, and when she dared look back up to him, he did not meet her eye. When the music ended, he let her go.

'Thank you' he said hurriedly, to the floor beneath her feet. 'That was… I mean… Thank you.'

He did not stay to hear her response.


	16. Chapter 16

Sandor.

There was nothing to do but look at her. It was not a choice, or an obligation. It was simple fact. Every other corner was filled with meaningless faces and false, empty words that amounted to no more than wasted air. A few months ago, half these people would have happily killed one another if they thought it would have won them a couple more dollars. Now, they shook hands and embraced as old friends. The whole night was threaded with lies and they all seemed to be happy to ignore it. Sandor could only conclude that their hatred had been as empty as their friendships were now. You could not simply bury away a true hate. It was not something that could disappear when the winds changed or it became inconvenient.

A drink would have helped, but he knew that he would not stop at just one. A gallon of booze would not drown out the anger these people and their shallow laughter were beginning to inspire in him. The waiters moved in a never ending circle around him, with platters full. It would have been so simple to just reach out and take one.

And so he looked instead at her. Her face told the truth. She was no more fooled by this fakery than he was, and she wore her distain like a badge of honour. He could hear it in her words, and the little sideways glaces. He saw it in the barely concealed sighs, and the thin, taut smile. It was mirrored in the face of her father, across the way. The pair of them alone seemed to be the only ones who understood the true nature of this evening. He knew then that she was the best of them. She would not hide her nature like the others could, for the sake of hurt feelings. She blazed.

She was enduring the attentions of the Baratheon boy with a cold humour. He watched as his hands intruded across her, and studied her face for that familiar flicker of malcontent that was so obviously just under the surface. She bore it gracefully, up to a point, before turning to snarl at him when he took his privileges too far. Sandor had to stifle a grin when she sent him scurrying away with burnt fingers. He doubted it would serve though. From what he had seen of the Baratheon, he was as blind as he was stupid.

He watched then as her brother came to her, emerging from the crowd to slip to her side. Sandor could not hear their words but he knew when a man was angry. Jaime was working, the same as him, but you would not tell to look at him. He was dressed better than most of the guests, clad head to toe in the ebony that was his trademark nowadays. But the flash of silver when his jacket coat moved betrayed his true purpose. Jaime carried a pair of monogrammed revolvers, strapped across his back. The handles were emblazoned with the Lannister coat of arms – a garish gold and red creation that had been commissioned by Tywins' father. They were too gaudy to Sandors' eye, and looked more for show than for work. Perhaps that was the point.

Jaime had become another sort of creature since the day he killed Aerys. Sandor knew that spilling blood could change a man, but Jaime had not been some virgin shooter, taking a pot shot with quaking hands. Sandor had never seen a boy take so easily to the gun, and with it had come a tendency towards that lazy kind of arrogance born of a talent too easily acquired. But there had always been something more substantial to him, or so Sandor had thought. It would have been easy for him to become cruel - he knew men with less who had done so, and done it spectacularly. But when Jaime looked at you, he looked you in the eye. He was like his sister in that respect. And he had always been kind to the little brother, even when most others barely hid their distain.

But Sandor had heard the things they whispered about him now. 'The Kingslayer' was the kindest of them, and even that was laced with venom. None of them had the backbone to say it to his face of course, and that just added to the hypocrisy. Most of the them wouldn't have spit on Aerys if he were on fire, and they were happy enough to dance around in his ashes now he was gone. But thank the man who had done what they were too cowardly to do? Never. Still, they kept speaking their soft insults and faint praises until the words had seemed to seep in to the fabric of him. Before long, he had become exactly what they said he was. But Sandor could tell when a man was playing a part. The expensive suits, the monogrammed guns, it was all for show. He was still kind to the little brother after all.

He had, in his younger days, allowed himself a certain childish fantasy. He knew now that it was born of desperation and hopefulness, a twin mixture of the brightest of his hopes and the darkest of his fears, and that it meant nothing really. Still, he could not deny the tiny joy he had felt at the thought of being one of them, even for a day; to be gold instead of brass.

It angered him to think it now, and he had put it aside the day the Gregor burned his face, along with all other childish things. The day his father died, he realised he deserved the monstrous face his brother had given him. He had wished for another father and so the gods had taken the one he had.

The room was hot and getting hotter. Too many people and too many voices made it hard to keep focused. Another tray came sailing past and he took a drink without thinking, downing it with one swift gulp. The taste awakened the hunger in him and he needed another almost at once, telling himself all the while that it would just be one more, just to take the edge off. One became two, became three, became five. The buzz in his head grew. Everyone was standing too close.

In the haze, he looked for her again. Their voices were louder now, but the argument continued – all insolent eyes and bared teeth, like the lioness she was. Anger made her even more beautiful, igniting her like a firework.

He watched her turn, leave.

He watched the hand reach, grab.

And all he could remember was the heat in his belly, and the cold gun in his hand, and the red slowly blooming across her perfect, perfect skin. And he knew that in one moment more, that boy who would have been his brother would have been dead.

But she was turning now, and his hand had loosened, and she was smiling again. And he realised, in the midst of his drunken fog, that she did not really need him after all.

Of course.


	17. Chapter 17

Cat.

She had the beginnings of a headache; a slow, ponderous thud just behind her eyes. The outside air was deliciously cool, like a splash of water on her hot face, and she stood for a moment with her eyes closed, just being still.

Too many things demanded her attention. She had not expected Lysa to be there tonight, and keeping her away from their father had been a battle. Hoster was in no mood to be civil, and she could not have stood to see them argue. Edmure had drunk too much, and so she had had to run interference with the waiters, steering the drinks trays away from him. All the while, Petyr had lurked in the background with his slow, indolent smile.

The wind had begun to tug at her hair and so she dug around in her purse for a mirror. Instead, she came across a crumpled half empty packet of cigarettes, and for a moment, was utterly confused as to why they were there. But then she remembered that their father hated the habit, and that Edmure developed a taste for it whenever he had too much to drink, and that she had desperately wanted to avoid any more trouble.

But in the cool, dusky night out on the steps there was no one around to care. With sudden impetuousness, she lit one and took a lungful of smoky rebellion. She had tried her first cigarette at 15, smuggled to her by Lysa. They had shared it tentatively in her bedroom, blowing the smoke out of the open window and spraying themselves in deodorant to hide the smell. She had not enjoyed it in the slightest, but she had preserved simply for the thrill. She had not smoked again, from that day to this, but yet she could remember the taste of it as clear as day. That, and the little spark of something joyful inside her. It was the same feeling she had had when she held a boys hand for the first time, or when Peytr had first lent in to kiss her. She had felt it the first night she had run the club alone, and the time Brandon had touched her in the kitchen with a bloody hand. And she had felt it like a wave the night she ran to Jon Arryn's club, all messy hair and confusion, and waited for man who never came. It was a delicious fear; all the things she chided herself for liking. And as the distinctive aroma began to fill her, she felt it once more.

Again, he crept up on her. He was always creeping up on her.

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you.'

_He is so polite_ she reflected, not even thinking about the cigarette quietly burning in her hand. In the next moment, she had recovered herself and was quickly stubbing it out under her foot.

'You didn't. I was just….I don't usually smoke. I'm sorry. It's a horrible smell.'

She waved her hand limpy in front of her, trying to will away the smoky cloud but the wisps hung in the air like the threads of a spiders' web. She smiled apologetically, but he didn't seem to mind. The awkwardness from earlier had not entirely gone, but he held her eye with a steely determination, as if to look at her took a tremendous amount of will. He had been drinking; the smell of alcohol was on him, but it did not seem enough to cause him any great difficulty.

'I thought you might have left.'

Was she hearing relief in his voice or was that wishful thinking? It was hard to look away. With anyone else, it might start to feel uncomfortable but not here. It was too strange. She wanted to know where it led, and suddenly, she felt that tingle again.

'I will, soon. It's too much, all of this. I think we've had enough.'

He nodded silently.

'I swore I wouldn't come back here' he said quietly, looking past her, lost for a moment. 'I don't know why I did.'

'For your friend' she said, and he smiled slowly.

'I wanted to tell you… I mean… I.'

He stopped, righted himself, looked back to her again with that ironclad expression. His mouth was a hard line, pressed shut.

And he just kept on looking.

'I wanted…'

'It's ok.'

'No, you don't understand. Being here, it's just….'

'Hard. I know.'

'Stop it. Listen… I need to say this.'

'Then say it.'

She wasn't sure who broke first, although she remembered the weight of his gaze on her mouth and the betrayal of her body as it leant towards him. She remembered the thickness of his hand when it grabbed her, and the rough skin on her arm, and the fact she really didn't mind. She knew that when he kissed her, all rushed and breathless, in all the ways she would normally hate, she didn't try to change it. And later, when he undressed her, she liked the way his hand shook. He made love to her like he was fighting a war - angry, hurried and eager – and she let him. There was no place for tenderness, and neither of them sought it out. It was enough just to feel the pressure of him, of another body, wanted and wanting.

And afterwards, when he couldn't meet her eye, she held his head still between her hands and made him look. And he smiled.


	18. Chapter 18

**Authors Note: **Just wanted to say thank you for the reviews, views and follows. I really appreciate feedback. So thanks!

Victarion.

He had his driver take him half of the way there, but he preferred to walk the last few blocks. It was easier to navigate the narrower streets by foot, and the shining black saloon car would have attracted too much unwanted attention. This part of the city was infested with the lowest kind of faithless degenerate – they would have stripped the car for drug money before it even pulled up, Victarion had no doubt. And it was somewhere in here that he would find his wayward brother.

He pulled his coat up around his neck and walked quickly down the maze, following a well worn path towards Aerons' favourite watering hole. 'Hole' was a fitting description. The bar was small, dark, and always damp under foot. The patrons were waited on by thin, pale women whose arms bore the marks of needles and cruelty, and who let themselves be groped and pawed by dirty, drunken hands. The whole place stank. Victarion knew the smell well. He wished he didn't.

His brother was at the bar sipping vodka straight. He did not look like a Greyjoy, and for once, Victarion was glad of it. He wore an old leather jacket, battered at the cuffs and elbows, and jeans with stains and a tear at the pocket. The thin fingers that curled around the glass were dirty and littered with roughly done tattoos. His hair was long, hanging past his ears, and already streaked with grey. He was younger than Victarion and yet his lifestyle had clearly taken its toll on his body. He sat hunched, his face lined and thin, but with a smile on his lips. He raised his drink in greeting as Victarion approached.

'Brother! Let me buy you a drink. You've come a long way to find me. It must be important.'

He slapped the bar loudly with his hand and lent across it, shouting.

'A drink! A drink for my brother, the great Victarion Greyjoy! Bring me a drink, goddammit!'

He sat back down, laughing merrily. His blasphemy made Victarion wince and he growled as he took him by the arm.

'Shut your mouth, will you? I would rather keep a low profile.'

Aeron laughed again and finished the last of his vodka.

'Why, it's almost like you're ashamed to be seen here. I don't know why. It's a fine establishment.'

Victarion cast a wary eye around him, taking in the desolate, wasted faces and the bleak, empty surroundings and wondered if his brother were joking or if he was now truly deluded.

'Or are you afraid that you'll be jumped? That's a very fine watch you're wearing. Plus I'm guessing there's a few hundred dollars in your wallet.'

Victarion snarled and let go of his brother's arm roughly.

'You know I'm not afraid' he said. It was not a lie. His gun sat enticingly at his hip, just a breath away. Even if it didn't, it wouldn't matter. He could do enough damage without it. Aeron continued to laugh.

'Don't worry! These are my friends here. They wouldn't rob a brother of mine.'

Victarion took a seat next to him, tentatively resting on the oddly lumpy stool. The barman had brought them drinks, although he did not touch his. He had never had a taste for alcohol. It made a man weak, stripping him down to his simplest terms. He was not sure he would like what would be left.

Aeron was grinning at him.

'You hardly ever come after me here anymore. I was beginning to think you didn't care about me. Remember the days when you used to try and drag me home by the scruff, back to Balon?'

Victarion had to laugh then.

'I know when I'm fighting a losing battle. You would only creep back out again when we turned our backs.'

He watched Aeron take a drink. Under all that dirt and sin and bad choices, he was his little brother still. Glinting under the collar of his shirt hung a golden chain, and on the ends of it hidden away, a golden kraken. It had been Urrigons'.

'I still care about you brother. I still pray for you.'

'Oh really? And what do you pray?'

'That you come back. That you settle down, find a wife, give all this up. You're still one of us. You are still better than this.'

Aeron snorted.

'In other words, a boring life. Tell me Victarion, has settling down made _you_ happy?'

'It hasn't made me unhappy.'

'That's not the same thing.'

'And which number wife are you on now? The third? Better off staying single and having all the women you like, whenever you like, than being tied down in marriage.'

'That is not the same and you know it.'

'Isn't it? You seem to take marriage vows as seriously as I do.'

He looked up from his drink and his eyes crinkled with a knowing smile.

'I've touched a nerve I think.'

Victarion did not want his brother to know the depths of his truth. He was not willing to admit it to himself most of the time. He had married the first time for love, the second time for duty. Neither reason seemed strong enough to hold him to his vow. He was still not sure which category Carellen fell under.

'We are Greyjoys' he said, ignoring Aerons smirk. 'We have a reputation to maintain. A name. Even you, brother.'

Aeron rolled his eyes and went back to his vodka.

'Oh yes? It seems to me our name is a bit of a laughing stock nowadays. Our father saw to that. Why not give up and join me in my depravity?'

But Victarion heard the bitterness in between the words and knew that there was still some fight in him yet. It was his turn to grin.

'Well, that happens to be the very reason I came to find you…'

And he told him all about Balons' plan.


	19. Chapter 19

Cersei.

Cersei had always liked herself best by candle light. There was something ethereal in the warm glow of a flame that made her shine in a way no other light could. Edges became softer, shadows became deeper, and all the colours of herself became alight. It was such a shame that she couldn't move through the world illuminated like this all the time. Candles were criminally underused nowadays.

She looked back at the reflection in the dressing table mirror and studied what she saw. Her hair was golden – truly golden – and under this magical kind of light, it appeared as if haloed. If she lent in close, she could see all the shades of earth and emerald that existed in her eyes. Around her neck, a trail of diamonds hung like a scattering of the heavens. They glittered in the flickering light and cast their rainbows up across her face so that it almost looked as if she herself were made of stars. And somewhere, in amongst all of this, she looked for herself.

Instead, only Jaime stared back at her. He was in the shape of her eyes, the curve of her mouth, the set of her jaw. Her expressions were only a mirror of his, borrowed from his face and worn on hers. When they had been small, not even their father could tell them apart. They had worn each others' clothes, spoken in each others' voices, moved as the other would move, to the point where she wasn't sure where he ended and she began. She couldn't understand why it should matter – there was no reason to her mind why they needed to be separate people. There was nothing he could do that was beyond her. There was nothing that she wanted to do without him. For quite a while, she had assumed that everyone had a twin. The people she saw were all simply one half of a whole, living one life in two bodies. Discovering that this was not true was one of the single most disappointing moments of her life. How could they possibly be happy, living like that, alone?

But that was until Tywin cut Jaime's hair and gave him his own bedroom, thus marking the beginning of a lifelong struggle by everyone she knew to wretch them apart. It wasn't just her parents; it was the nanny and maids, her friends and her teachers; all of them suddenly insisting that she was somehow now different from him. It made no sense to her. She had been given this precious gift, this secret world, and was now required to forget it all. Later, when they were older, they found their way back to one another. No one could tell her that it was wrong.

But where did that leave her now? This last year had pulled them father apart than she had ever thought she could have stood. The months alone in New York with the constant terror that he would die, or forget her, or find someone else; all equally as bad as the others to her mind. But it had shown that she was capable of living a life separate from him (and perhaps, she concluded a little later, that she liked it). When he had made the decision to stay in Miami, she had not understood it and had been cold to him out of fear and a desire to punish him. But she had known secretly that it was also out of jealousy. He had made a decision for himself, to please himself and she envied that as much as she hated it. What did she have that was hers, and hers alone? Even her face was shared. When she looked back at it, she saw not only Jaime but her mother and father, and all the Lannisters that had been before her. The weight of the name lay across her shoulders.

She looked instead at the necklace again and its extravagant splash of gemstones. It was heavy – each diamond was nearly 8 carats and set in white gold. In between each link, a smaller princess cut emerald sat twinkling in shades of green. It was too much for her, even in her most excessive of moods, and she would never have chosen it normally; she preferred to advertise her wealth with more subtlety. But she had not chosen it, and that was the point. It was a gift from Robert, and as much as she hated it, she loved what it represented. It was big and bold and undeniable; a sign to anyone who cared to look that he was attempting to impress her, that she was the object of his attention. And despite herself, she was beginning to find that thought endearing.

He had no manners and no class. He had been born in nothing and fought his way in to this world with grit and teeth and determination. He had a temper, and was arrogant. He had no taste and no style.

And yet…

She looked at the stupidly heavy necklace and remembered the feeling that his hand had caused as it lay across her skin, and desire that had been pricked somewhere deeper inside her. The memory of it lay dormant in her flesh, threatening to wake again at the most inconvenient of moments. And why, after all, could she not be allowed to have something normal and just for her? If Jaime could have a life separate from her, then so could she. The things she desired – power and love and security – should be hers in her own right, not because of her name or who her father was.

And she wanted, above all things, to make a choice that was hers and her body told her that she wanted Robert. It made no sense, but perhaps it was time to be reckless. She touched the cold gemstones delicately with her fingers, and felt them begin to warm from her touch. She would wear it tonight, and she would shine.

The knock on her door was soft and at first she did not hear it. When it came again, a little more urgently, she had to take a moment to remember where she was and what she was meant to be doing.

'Come!'

She stood, continuing to make the last adjustments to her dress and look for her purse, all the while with the back to the door. Whoever had entered had made no sound, and so when she eventually turned, she was not entirely sure who to expect. His grey eyes were downcast, hidden under that mop of hair. She sighed.

'Oh. You again. I suppose we are ready to leave?'

He didn't answer her, but simply nodded. She rolled her eyes and turned away, checking her purse one last time and running a cautionary finger across her diamonds again. When she turned back, he was still looking at the floor, slightly out of the doorway. For such a tall, strong boy, he could make himself seem very, very pathetic. As she approached him, he flinched away. _Well this is new_.

'What's gotten in to you lately?' he demanded briskly, annoyed by his demeanour. She stood opposite him in the doorway, so that he had hardly any room to back away from her. He continued to avoid her gaze, but she could immediately see the panic in his expression. Normally, she would be amused by that but now it was just irritating. She had begun to like his sullen, angry presence. It was reassuring. She didn't need some limp little puppy following her around. What good would that be in a crisis?

'I mean it' she said, sharply. 'I don't have time for this. Look at me for fuck's sake!'

He raised his head slowly, and she was not prepared for the intensity in his expression. His eyes roamed across her, dark and violent. He swallowed dryly, and she was close enough to see the flex and pull of the muscles in his neck and shoulders. To anyone else, it might have seemed scary, and she was painfully aware that he truly towered above her. But she recognised that certain flicker, somewhere in the depths. She had seen it in men before when they looked at her. She had not, however, expected to see it here. She laughed derisively.

_New indeed _she thought to herself. _So the dog is human after all. Well, let him look. But he better get over it soon. He's no good to me moping. _

She pushed past him, still laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, and made her way down the corridor. She heard the boy trail silently behind her.


	20. Chapter 20

Cat.

'Married?'

The slim golden band sat on her finger in defiance of everything Cat knew or thought she knew. She looked blankly and tried to understand exactly what she was being told.

'When?'

Lysa giggled and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. She looked like a girl again; hopeful, happy. Cat smiled despite herself.

'Two days ago. When we went to the country, he took me to this little chapel. It was so beautiful Cat. I wish you could have been there.'

'But do you love him?'

The question had to be asked. The girl she had seen a moment ago flickered and disappeared before her as Lysa cast her eyes down to her wedding ring.

'He's good to me' she said. There was a ghost of a smile on her mouth but it was not the cheerful beam of a newlywed woman. Cat reached across the table but stopped just short of making a connection. There was something fragile about the way she smiled, and she didn't want to break it.

'That's not the same thing' she said softly.

Lysa continued to gaze at her hand, rolling the band slowly around between her fingers.

'No, it's not. But why is that such a bad thing?'

When she looked back up, the delicacy had once again hardened in to something more substantial. Something more convincing.

'I'll not want for anything Cat. He's decent and respectable. He treats me like a lady.'

Cat pursed her lips and tried to summon a smile. She wanted the girl to come back and giggle again. The girl who was annoying, and shallow, and fleeting. But also joyful, and innocent and sweet. And so very, very free.

'So… tell me about it' she said, and listened as Lysa spoke about the lace in the dress she wore, and the shade of pink in the roses she carried, and the boat ride they took afterwards. Slowly, the girl bloomed again in front of her.

'And you know the best thing about it?'

She grinned and pressed her hands together between her knees, leaning forward and speaking in a rushed whisper.

'Dad is speaking to me again.'

Cat found herself laughing then, caught completely by surprise.

'You mean he knows?'

'Oh yes. Jon insisted on asking his permission first. I guess he's old fashioned like that.'

As the laughter died, Cat began to feel the fight begin within her; Joy, that at last her family was reunited. But anger that her father had kept this from her. Worse, that he had sanctioned this union against all better judgement. How could he want this for his daughter? Surely he remembered the girl and what she had been? She twisted the napkin between her fingers and tried not to let her emotions show on her face.

'That's amazing' she said carefully. 'I'm so happy for that.'

She knew then, as the cool balm of sensibility returned to sooth her anger, that her father knew exactly what he was doing. He remembered the girl as well as Cat did. The delicate, kind-hearted girl who had been hurt.

'Come over for dinner soon' Lysa was saying, taking a sip of coffee. 'All of you. Jon doesn't have a big family, and it will be lovely to have everyone there. Does Edmure have a girlfriend yet? Tell him to bring her if he does. And what about you? Anything I should know…?'

For a brief, panic-stricken moment, Cat thought she knew.

_How could she? She's been away. No one knows. We were careful. No one knows what happened. Not even me…_

She blinked and looked away, not trusting that her expression wouldn't betray her.

'No, just me I'm afraid' she said brightly, staring a little too intently in to her cup of coffee. The waiter had brought them pastries and fruit, and she tore in to a croissant with eager fingers. It was not a lie to say she was alone. She had not seen Eddard since the hotel re-opening, and she had thought for a little while that she should just forget what had happened. Many things done in the dark did not stand up to much in the unforgiving light of day. But his name kept finding its way in to her world, and she found that she was forever entering rooms which he had just left. And then, of course, life had thrown another particularly inconvenient trick her way.

She had been in possession of this secret knowledge for five days now, and she was unwilling to offer it up to the world just yet. To do so would mean facing questions she had no answers to, and she had no desire to field the opinions of others on something so delicate and insubstantial when she had not yet formed her own mind on it. She had made her list and written on it carefully all the various reasons she had to be cautious, to be afraid, to be hesitant. But at the end of it all, she was discovering that reason was surrendering more and more to that dark undercurrent that ran from her heart rather than her head.

They finished their lunch with a kiss and an embrace, and a promise that she would come and visit soon. Cat walked the long way home, along the sea front, all the while running her fingers over the smooth buttons of her cell but not dialling. The smell of salt and sand pulled out a strength in her that she didn't realise she had needed, until her legs began to ache with walking and her head became more clear. She took refuge in the shadow of one of the palm trees that littered the shorefront, sinking down in to the sand as she heard the dial tone click and his voice answer. She had decided to be direct – after all, she had not been given the luxury of a slow reveal.

'Cat?'

'Hi.'

'…I've been meaning to talk to you. It's just been a bit busy, you know….'

'It's ok, you don't need to….'

'No, honestly. I have. I think maybe…'

'Eddard, I need to talk to you...'

'You can call me Ned. Everyone else does.'

'Ok, Ned. I need to tell you something, just listen.'

'Ok.'

…

'I'm pregnant.'

'Oh.'


	21. Chapter 21

Sandor.

The day was dragging, and his bones were beginning to feel the ache. In the calm dark of the corner, he took refuge and lit his last cigarette, briefly illuminated in the flare of the lighter. The radio was playing the same song that is always did, although in all honestly, he could no longer tell the difference. That latin music all seemed the same to him. The air was hot and still, and the black outside crept in through the broken windows, filling the bleak little workshop with shadows. The production line seemed much less jovial tonight; perhaps the heat was getting to them too. As usual, Sandor could not understand what they said, but their chatter was restricted to a few muttered sentences and brief little interludes. The tinny music played on, echoing eerily around the bare concrete of the room.

He could see the girl called Esther from across the table. She worked like the rest of them, hands moving in dull repetition, unsmiling, across the piles of bright white powder. Her skin glistened with a slight wet sheen, defining the thinness of her arms. Her hair, still with its familiar curl, sat limp in a pony tail and there were dark circles under her eyes. She could have sat unnoticed, in amongst the line, were it not that he had searched for her. He wasn't sure why he had. Looking at her made him sad, and so he stopped.

Jaime was at the other end of the room, talking loudly with one of the other black suited men. Sandor continued to smoke his cigarette and watch quietly, hoping he hadn't yet been seen. He had no desire to talk much tonight, let alone summon the necessary cordiality needed for that particular conversation. He was finding it more difficult to face the man these days. He told himself that it was the lies he cloaked himself in; those stupid revolvers and the silk ties, that unchecked arrogance and the easy way in which he had let the rumours shape who he was. He wore it so casually. Sandor prided himself in seeing the lie in everyone – never had he seen someone revel in theirs so gloriously.

The other reason, small and inconsistent as it may be, was that he was starting to remind him far too much of _her_. It angered him to think that and yet it remained, as small and as sharp as a mosquito bite, and the urge to scratch it out was relentless. He thought it would have been easier being sober, when he was more in control of his mind and the places it drifted to. But the sweet dullness of alcohol was one of the only things that ended up washing it away – if only for an hour or two. The anger would never leave though. He never expected that it would.

It had been in the foggy half-light of a hangover that he had had his epiphany. It was a simple idea, and yet he still baulked at seeing it through. Nevertheless, the notion had taken root and he had determined that tonight he would seek out Tywin and tell him he must resign his post. There were plenty of other men who could trail after the woman. He would give up the flat and the microwave and the cell phone. He would give it all up to go back to the old places he knew, to a life made simple and bloody and raw once again.

There were noises from the far end, where Jaime still stood; voices, a door opening, movement in the corridor. He paid it no attention until they started to shout. He dropped the cigarette and stood, not leaving the shadows yet, still watching. The production line was already beginning to twitch, glancing at the guards nervously. Jaime was on his cell, barking orders. Someone ran up the stairs with his face flushed and said something Sandor could not quite catch. Jaime looked at him then, and called him over with a wave of the hand. His expression was stern.

'Men, down stairs. Armed I think. Not ours.'

He had his guns out, one in each hand. Suddenly they did not seem quite so ridiculous. Sandor took his out too and nodded his understanding. Behind him, the workers were beginning to scatter. Not all of them spoke English, which was adding to their panic. Jaime was shouting instructions but they were not listening. The un-bagged powder was getting knocked about, filling the air with thin, white plumes. Jaime shook his head with a growl.

'Get down there. Take Crakehall and Brax with you and head them off before they reach us. Fuck knows what I'll do with this lot if they get up here.'

When he moved in to the corridor, he could immediately hear the noise from the stairwell. Shouts rang up from the blackness, echoing from the stone walls. Footsteps fell heavy on the concrete. He did not recognise the voices, but he knew they were in the building.

The old familiar rush washed over him - a calmness that settled deep in to his bones, making his muscles relax and his mind clear. His limbs bent to his will without hesitation, moving to a well recalled memory. The thud of his pulse sounded steady in his ears, and the adrenaline made his mouth taste copper. It was the threat of something visceral, hanging just out of reach. The promise of blood set his teeth on edge. So many of them, all rushing up to meet him. All rushing to die. The world outside was a storm – here, all was still. It was the only time he felt ok.

Gun fire blasted from the floor below, scattering the stairwell with flashes of light. Shouts became screams and for the shortest of moments, he thought about the little boy with a lopsided smile who he hoped was not home.

The mob came upstairs. He couldn't tell one from the other; they were just faces to aim at. In a rain of bullets, they exploded from the end of the corridor as one – a black, seething mass coming towards them, tearing the air apart. He ducked, took cover, turned, fired and fired again, saw the red spray. The stillness remained. He could see their ragged mouths moving but no sound came from them. The only thing in his world was the slow, steady heart beat in his ears and the metal tang on his tongue. He reloaded once, twice, a third time, moving seamlessly from one to the next without hesitation. The red kept coming, but so did they. There seemed to be hundreds of them now, a torrent across the floor. They had gotten behind him somehow. He could hear Jaime shouting somewhere, but could not turn to see. One of them got close enough for its stench to fill his nostrils. He battered down on to it with the butt of his gun until his hand was wet and sticky. The tang in his mouth bloomed, became a trickle, became a flood. Some far off part of him opened its eyes and roared. The red kept coming.


	22. Chapter 22

**Authors note: **Thanks again for the feedback, I really appreciate it. Onward!

* * *

Victarion.

He was itching for a cigarette. His fingers still had the vague yellow stains that told of his former habit, and his hand twitched involuntarily at the memory of his last indulgence. It had been a long time ago but yet the body still remembered. He curled his lip at his own weakness and turned back to the rest of the men, waiting in the dark. The moon was fat and swollen above them, and the sound of water lapped gently at the bank below. Another van had just driven down the embankment, bringing the total up to three, but no sign of Euron yet. Victarion cursed his brother silently and sucked the cool night air in between his teeth and continued to try and distract himself from the nagging itch in his lungs and the hot wash of adrenaline that was pooling in the pit of his stomach.

Aeron was handing out shot guns from the back of one of the vans. The grit and grim from the bar remained on him, as did the battered leather jacket and the ripped jeans, but there was something different about him tonight. He wasn't slouching for once, and there was life in his eyes again. Victarion smiled to see it. He had had his doubts about what they were doing, he could not deny them. They were opening up old wounds that was always bloody, and the biting warmth in the pit of him was just a little too pleasing, a little too eager. For all of Balon's noble words about reclaiming the family honor the simple, raw thrill of it all was beginning to seep in and stain all of those grand intentions. When he looked at Aeron, and saw his brother renewed again, he was reminded of the higher purpose to their actions. He said a quiet little pray to the night.

The screech of tyres on dirt signaled the arrival of their final member. Euron came from his car dressed in black, leather gloves and jackboots and still managing to look as though he had come from the club. He smiled that slow, oil-slick smile of his and nodded. They got in the vans.

Gunfire ripped across the stairwell above them, and something inhuman roared from further away. There was a body in front of him, slumped against the wall, and he hauled it out the way. As it fell, he saw the torn, ragged hole where the eye used to be and the tang of blood hit him full in the face. He ground his teeth and grinned. Euron was ahead of him, somewhere. He could hear him shouting. The roar continued. He ran from the stairwell towards it, and the light exploded around him.

They were at the end of the corridor. He couldn't see their faces, just the flare from their guns. That was all he needed – a direction to shoot. More of them followed, from his end and theirs. He took his aim quickly, clinically. The body still remembered. They fell and he moved onward. The roaring got louder, and he saw a face then- deformed and twisted and full of hate - and he thought for a moment that a monster had been made flesh. But then he saw the boy beneath the wash of blood, and realised the roar was in his head. The boy raised his fist and brought it down hard, and the crunch of bone left a sickening echo in his ear, but not in his mouth. He had no time to see who it was. Instead he ducked past him, beyond him, towards the door. There was more of them still, but he felt nothing now except the heat and the urge. They all fell before him.

He saw Euron then, a streak of black in the mess, eye like fire. He was laughing- a strange jarring sound against the chaos around him. His gloves were slick, suddenly wet under the strip lights. He had someone by the throat, punching them over and over again. Each time he withdrew his hand, the wetness continued to spread until Victarion saw the glint of a blade in his hand and suddenly knew why he was laughing. He pressed onwards.

There were screams beyond the door. Screams of fear and panic and pain. He did care much for them, but he knew he had to get there. It was not about the drugs – Tywin could keep his filthy hands on that, the Greyjoys did not deal in narcotics. It wasn't even about the money, although he knew it would sting him to take whatever they found. It was about sending a message. It was disruption and power and to show they could not be ignored. And if they brought down a couple of their men in the process, so much the better. But civilians were something else entirely and he had no interest in killing them. The Lord would not forgive him that. Nevertheless, as he crashed in to the room and looked upon their pitiful, staring eyes, he had to fight the urge to pull the trigger once again. One of them started to stammer in incomprehensible Spanish and run towards him, arms raised in supplication. He watched her come at him down the barrel of his gun, wailing all the time, until she was close enough for the bullet to bite right through her. But he pulled back at the last moment, denying the gun its kill, and sent her sprawling across the floor instead. But it was not enough to stop her pleading and so had to smack her again just to keep her quiet. Her mewling crawled in to the dark parts of his mind, and he could feel the itch in his trigger finger.

'Shut up' he growled between gritted teeth.

'Shut up and live.'

She looked up at him with wide, reproachful eyes and a smear of red trickling from her mouth, but he could already tell that she had not understood his meaning. He could see her pleas already on her tongue, her hands reaching for him once again. She began to crawl, on her knees towards him. Her bloody mouth opened. The words began to fall.

He did not hesitate. He did not waver. Not that time. As her lifeless body fell backwards and the screams rose up even higher, he looked down blankly and wondered how much prayer he would need to wash this stain out.


	23. Chapter 23

Cersei.

The waitress was flirting with him. She had spotted the over-eager way that she smiled, showing far too much teeth. And the soft little touches she kept giving her hair and the way her hand skimmed his when she took his credit card. She giggled too. No woman her age giggled. Cersei had her marked. When their second round of drinks were brought to the table, she was sure to stop her before she could leave.

'I'm sorry, but could you hold on for second?'

She smiled sweetly and took a careful sip from her glass. She glanced back to the waitress with a look of disappointment painted delicately across her features.

'Did you make this?'

The waitress nodded and giggled again, although it was a little nervous this time Cersei noted with approval. She pouted slightly and sighed, setting the glass down.

'And how long have you been….a waitress?'

She made the word sound like an insult. She was good at doing that, and she could see it had hit its mark. The woman shifted uncomfortably; the girlish charm evaporating before her eyes.

'I didn't want to say anything. The first time, I assumed perhaps you had made a little mistake. But this…'

She nodded to the offending glass.

'Well really. A Manhattan is one of the easiest drinks to make. Don't they teach you anything in waitressing school?'

She gazed back with a practiced look of blank indifference. The woman began to stammer.

'I… I thought… Can I ask what's wrong?'

Cersei laughed sharply and arched her eyebrow, glancing to Robert. He looked between her and waitress but said nothing.

_That's right, you're involved now too. See that sweetheart? He's not coming to your rescue._

'I asked for a Manhattan on the rocks. This means you pack the glass with ice first, then shake the liquor, then pour. I can tell from one sip that you didn't do that. It tastes all vermouth, no whisky. And it's warm. I'm guessing you just slapped everything in separately and then wiggled over here in your little dollar store heels and tried to pass it off as something special, am I right? So why don't you take it back and have someone who knows what they're doing make it for you, ok? Oh and I wanted a lemon twist, not a cherry.'

She turned away without waiting to see the look on the woman's face. She didn't need to. When she looked at Robert, there was the ghost of a grin on his lips. She didn't like that it pleased her so much.

'That was mean' he said, with a chuckle.

Cersei shrugged.

'Then she should learn how to pour a drink' she said simply.

He was looking more and more like the man he was trying to be. The suits that had started off too long in the cuff where now tailored to sit perfectly along his broad shoulders. He had started to let his hair grow; the thick, black sweep across his head now infinitely more appealing than that close shaven look he had so favoured before his rise to power. The watch he wore had real diamonds in it now, and the pen in his breast pocket was gold plated. The tattoos remained of course, peeking up around his neck and wrists, hinting at the threat of something more beneath the surface. She had imagined following their trail with her finger tips, across those muscles and the taunt, hard flesh she had felt underneath the pressed cotton. She had allowed him to kiss her once or twice, let his hands roam across the back of her neck and touch the soft skin behind her ear. She knew the way his mouth tasted, and the particular feel of his stubble grazing her nose; so different to what she knew. So different from Jaime. She took a breath, composed herself, put that thought away. This was not about him for once. That must remain separate.

'I want to take you out' he said, still grinning. He reached across and touched her hand, letting his fingers slip around hers. It was not a delicate movement - his hand was too large and rough for that – but she enjoyed it all the same.

'We are out' she said evenly, remaining distant even as his finger started to rub across the underside of her wrist.

'Not here. Somewhere quiet. Private.'

'So the opposite of 'out' then?'

'Fine. I want to take you in.'

He held her eyes with his, a trace of something hungry and insistent colouring his look. He licked his lips and she felt herself shudder.

The shrill ring of his cell phone broke his gaze. He let go of her hand and reached in to his pocket, flicking it open with his thumb. His expression became black.

'When? …. I don't care about that, just tell me when…. '

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as he listened to the faroff voice on the other end of the line.

'How many of ours?... Shit, right ok. And how much did they take?'

There was another long pause. She watched his face change from anger to disbelief.

'What do you mean, nothing? Nothing at all?! Then what….'

He was standing to leave, reaching for his jacket. He didn't even seem to remember she was there.

'Fuck this. Ok. Those bastards better be ready because I'm fucking coming for them all, I swear. I fucking swear.'

She stood too, following him because she didn't know what else to do. She was dammed if she was going to be left sitting there alone. She pushed past the waitress coming back with her drink.

'Just handle it. I don't care how, just do it. I'm coming over now….. '

Out in the lobby, he was already dialling another number. She stood close to him, trying to listen to the conversation but he barely registered her. She recognised the echo on the line though. Her father's solemn tone was quite distinctive.

The driver brought the car around and he got in, still talking. Cersei had to open her door herself. In the cream leather interior, she sat with arms folded listening to the clipped, half-muted exchange. Finally, as they pulled out in to the main street, he seemed to remember she was with him.

'I'm talking you home' he said darkly.

'Why? What's happened? What did my father say?'

She hated not knowing, and he was doing nothing to ease her anxiety.

'Some trouble. I'm dealing with it.'

She pressed her lips together hard, trying to keep calm. It didn't work.

'Take me with you. Are you going to my dad? Just tell me what's happened, for fucks' sake!'

He closed his eyes and pinched his nose again.

'Someone went all Rambo on one of our distribution houses. Shot the place up. Killed some people.'

'Who?!'

His lack of detail was shockingly annoying. Her mind flitted from one thought to another.

'Your brother said it was the Greyjoys.'

_Jaime! Oh God, what was he doing there?_

'Is he alright!?' She couldn't contain the panic in her voice. Luckily, he was too consumed in his own anger to notice anything more than sisterly concern.

'He's fine. Got a few of them, he says. Not enough.'

She relaxed a little at that, but she knew she couldn't be at ease until she could see him, to know he was alright.

'I'm coming with you' she said determinedly, but he shook his head.

'Your father says no. I'm taking you back first.'

'I am a grown woman! You can't just…'

'Cersei! I'm taking you back.'

His tone was curt, and for a moment she felt as though her father were in the car with them, chastising her the way he had done when she was a little girl. She glared at him furiously but knew this was not the battle to pick. She would ring Jaime when she got home, make her own way there if necessary. They couldn't keep her locked out. She was just as invested in this as any of them.

As soon as she heard the car move off the driveway, she ran to the phone and dialled her brothers' number. She waited breathlessly as the ringtone clicked over and his voice filled her head. He sounded so distant.

'Jaime! Are you ok? What's happening? Where are you?'

He didn't answer straight away.

'I'm fine. Listen, just stay there and I'll ring you later.'

'Wait! Just tell me what's going on. I'm coming over.'

'No, don't. There's nothing you can do. I'll talk to you later.'

'Jaime, I…'

'Stay there. We can handle this.'

The dial tone sounded bleak and lonely.


	24. Chapter 24

Sandor.

He hadn't slept properly for three days, nor even seen the inside of his little apartment. His mind told him that he should probably feel tired, but his body didn't seem to listen. He closed his eyes sometimes but he could never seem to slip in to that dark, quiet recess where everything was still. The noise seemed to follow him wherever he went. It was a familiar pattern of course. In a few days, it would fade away in to the background again and he would be able to turn off that part of himself that needed to be alert and ready. But that was not yet, and he had other work to do.

In front of him, Tywin Lannister surveyed the latest damage with a calculating eye. There were not too many bodies this time; it had been a relatively clean operation. They had had a tip off a few hours before hand and so there had been time to prepare. Sandor couldn't understand exactly why the Greyjoys wanted to attack here; a dealers house in Little Havana. Mallister was a small time hood working for the Tullys, and never kept a great deal of cash or gear at his house. But the whys of these things rarely made any difference to him. He had known the whys behind what had happened to Areys, and yet blood was blood and it stank the same no matter why it was spilled. He had heard men say this was another rebellion, but he didn't particularly care for that word. It was just a fancy way of dressing up death to make it something justified and noble; in other words, another lie. Besides, from what he had seen so far, this was nothing like the carnage of last year. The Greyjoys had had some luck, he could see that, and had made a lot of people angry. But they were outnumbered and alone. None of the other families had chosen to back them. And now, they had suffered another loss.

'This one looks familiar' Tywin was saying. He had stopped over the bloodied body of one of the Greyjoy men. He was young, from what Sandor could see. Maybe not much older than he was. There was a single bullet wound in his chest – a clean death – and most of the red on him was probably not his. Sandor looked away and continued cleaning his own gun, still sticky with someone else's blood.

'That's Rodrik' said one of the other men, casting an eye over the body. He moved to kick the corpse over with his foot but Tywin reached across and held him back with his arm.

'The dead deserve respect. Even our enemies' he said curtly. 'Have the boy returned to his mother.'

A few more men came forward and started to gather up the eldest Greyjoy son, carrying him between them like a half filled sack of coal. Tywin stood apart and watched them with his ice green eyes.

'And if I hear that the boy has reached his family in anything less than a perfectly dignified and austere manner, it will be your mothers who next receive their sons remains. Understand?'

Sandor watched them leave and wondered if this would be the line Balon would not cross. These people put a lot of stock in to their offspring, the continuation of their line. It was an utterly pointless exercise, and one that was dripping in the kind of ridiculous self-indulgence so many of these people seemed to revel in. A good father was no guarantee of a good son, so why insist that these things pass along family lines if not to fulfill some stupid, shallow notion of legacy? He wiped the last smear from the barrel of his gun and slipped it neatly back in to his holster, the balance of himself once again righted.

The bodies were almost all but gone, but the rest of the mess remained. Over turned furniture and broken glass covered most of the floor. Bullet holes littered the walls and dark stains splattered the carpet, still damp underfoot. Sandor had a wound to his thigh, and a bullet had skimmed his rib cage. Neither one was particularly serious, although they continued to bleed. He had used his ripped up t-shirt to stem the flow and the wound on his side seemed to be clotting at last. The gash in his thigh was a little deeper though, and would probably need stitches. He flexed the leg experimentally and felt the hot tang of pain shoot through the muscle. He kept moving it until the pain began to feel more comfortable and he was able to stand. As he did, he was aware of the shadow that had fallen across him. His employer was dressed as if he were going to a business lunch, not popping in to survey the carnage from another drug den shoot up. He alone was untouched from the mess that surrounded him. A tall, thin figure in an impeccable black suit with a scarlet tie. When you looked closer, you could see the lion motif picked out in golden thread.

'You need to get that seen to Clegane' he said briskly, looking at the wound with an indistinct look of disdain 'Not the hospital though – too many questions. Go to my house. I'll send my doctor.'

Sandor nodded. His jeans were wet and cold and beginning to cling to him. In the cab ride back he took care not to get too much blood on the seat. The driver seemed to know better than make any comment.

At the house, he found the doctor had not yet arrived. Instead, one of the maids vigorously shooed him in to a downstairs bathroom with a horrified expression, muttering all the time in broken English. A pile of threadbare towels that smelt like dog were unceremoniously dumped in his lap, and he was left to clean himself up. The work was slow and painful, but the water was warm and soon enough, he had a managed to wipe his skin clean of blood. The wound on his leg was still bleeding though, so he peeled off his sodden jeans to get a better look at it. It was raw and angry, but the pain seemed to be fading, the way it did with new wounds. He knew it would return once the skin had been tied back together and the flesh had begun to knit. For now, he cleaned the skin and ripped up one of the towels to wrap around it, replacing the now-soaked t-shirt. The grogginess of blood loss was starting to set in, blurring the edge of his vision. He stood, steadying himself against the wash basin. The reflection that looked back was a pale mess of a body, too tall for his age, muscles too keenly defined under clammy skin. The scars crisscrossed his flesh in slim, sliver patterns; the left over trail of some drunken creature that had marauded its way across him. He couldn't bring himself to look at the face.

The door was opened a little; perhaps he had not shut it properly. In the ever increasing thickness of his consciousness, he became aware of that particular prick to the skin that signified someone was looking at him. In the silver of the open door, he saw golden hair and the soft red curve of her lips, although whether it was a smile or a snarl he couldn't tell. He would have taken either. Even disdain was better than indifference. But the weight of her gaze began to burn him, just as viciously as any real fire, and he had to turn away. He closed the door, sat down on the edge of the bath, and waited for the doctor.


	25. Chapter 25

Victarion.

The house echoed with her wailing. As large as it was, no corner was untouched by the sound of the woman sobbing and it ate in to his mind like a sharp rust, setting his nerves on edge. For days now she had been unrelenting in her grief, determined that everyone share her pain. The boy was stiff and cold, and yet she tore at herself as if the destruction of her body might bring back life to his. Victarion had seen the boy before they buried him. He knew there was no coming back from that.

For Balon, there could have been no more different a reaction. The loss of his eldest son had caused him to retreat in to himself, becoming sullen and withdrawn – as if a man like Balon could have become any more dour. Yet in the stillness, Victarion could sense that a fire had been lit, hotter and brighter than anything previously kindled. It consumed him with a force that Victarion had not seen since their youth, in the searing heat when they had first cut their teeth on the street and learnt their violent language. The words had come back to him with so much ease it had shocked him. Well, perhaps that wasn't exactly true. He knew he hadn't forgotten them entirely. How could he? The words were written across him like the tattoos that littered Aeron's body. It was the only language he had ever truly mastered; his native tongue.

The early victories had caused them to be over confident, he knew that now. Eurons' plan had been strikingly effective and had left the Lannisters' scattered. They had torn through their operations in Little Havana and Liberty City with ease, quick and vicious like the reavers of old. But the hammer had started to fall now, and Rodrick was likely to be the first of many casualties that God would ask of them. Victarion had mourned his nephew with all the solemnity he felt he should allow, but he could not let emotion cloud his judgement. He could not let it cloud Balons' either.

Carellen had gone to fetch him a drink – something cold in the heat – and she had not yet returned. The wailing continued, although from the change in timbre, it seemed Alannys had moved back upstairs. It gave him some relief but not enough. He wanted to leave, and sink back out in to the reassuring rock of the ocean where he could find some peace. But the streets had become dangerous now, and he would not succumb to skulking around his own neighbourhood like some frightened animal. He had no concerns about the Lannisters or even the Baratheons trying to make a statement this side of town but he couldn't count on some jumped up wannabe trying to make a name for himself by gunning down a Greyjoy. Victarion was under no illusions about his mortality; it was a fact that lived brutally close to the surface. Everyone died eventually. But he had no desire to be someone's trophy, and so he had bowed to his wifes' ridiculous concessions to safety. He would travel by car under bullet proof glass, with a bodyguard on hand to take any stray round that might find its way to him. So Victarion did not travel. At least, not by day. He did his best work by night anyway.

Confident in the knowledge that the wailing woman was safely ensconced up in her room, he ventured from the parlour out in to the hallway. Apart from the low, wet sobbing, the house was still. The children were upstairs with their mother, no doubt clutched tightly to her damp chest. Balon was out – he had taken Maron to the docks to inspect the precautions his men had taken against Lannister retribution. The numbers had been tripled, and the last of the family money had been thrown at ensuring everyone was armed to the teeth and ready to go. All the raids in the world would mean nothing if they lost control of the docklands. They had already intercepted cargo bound for the Baratheons and the Tullys – coke mainly but also a particularly lovely Ferrari that Robert had earmarked for himself. Victarion had wanted to send it back to him smashed up, but Balon had forbidden it. They would sell it on and put the money to the war effort. It was the spoils of battle. Euron had liked that notion. He had taken a healthy cut of the coke for himself and disappeared after Rodricks' death, only to reappear gaunt and grinning two days later, the smell of blood on him and darkness in his eyes. Victarion did not for a moment consider that his brother might have been mourning.

He did not feel bitter for being left behind. He had no desire for that dry, boring type of work. But he was getting fed up in the house. The kitchen was not far, and there he might find his wife who could entertain him and perhaps get him that drink he had asked for. But as he neared the door, the sound of whispers came to him from the room beyond, echoing a little from the cavernous kitchen. It was enough to make him pause – he had not thought anyone else was downstairs – but the low murmur of his wifes' voice was unmistakable. Suspicion made him step lightly, treading towards the doorway. Some low instinct made him cautious, and he did not stop to think why. His misgivings were rewarded when he saw who she was with.

Euron was coiled around her like an anaconda, black and polished as the diamond she wore on her finger, but he did not look at his brother. Her back was to him, so he could not see her face, but her head was turned away. The tension in her was clear; from the taunt, stiff way she held her neck to the way she gripped the counter top with curled, white fingers. Still, she didn't move away when he began to lean in closer, bringing that tainted mouth near to the delicate exposed skin of her shoulder. He held his breath as he waited for those lips to make contact, knowing instantly that he would smash her treacherous skull against the floor the moment she allowed him to touch her. But in the very last second she twisted away, finally revealing her face– pale and faraway. Her eyes looked wet. The skin across her throat was red and flushed but still mercifully untouched. He felt the rage drain from him slowly, like the slow sucking of quicksand. He stepped out in to the room.

'Victarion!'

She sounded too bright, too happy. Too fake. Her hand was shaking a little as she held his drink, making the ice cubes rattle against the glass. He walked to her in silence, ignoring the malevolent gaze coming from the dark corner to his left. He took the drink. She kept her eyes firmly on his, but he could not see her betrayal in them. Maybe she hid it well, but he had seen enough of it to know it was there.


	26. Chapter 26

Cat.

The sky was painted ice cream colours, and the sea had taken on a soft, graceful motion that lapped the shoreline lazily. In another life, she would have taken off her shoes and run about in the surf.

She waited for him outside the little beach café that served those doughnuts she liked. She ate one while she stood, getting sugar over her fingers and staring out across the bay. She regretted her decision when he turned up, and the sticky sweet residue was all over her face. He kissed her anyway, briefly and on the cheek. They smiled nervously at one another and she spent the next ten minutes furtively wiping the last grains of sugar from her mouth.

They walked along the bay, talking about nothing, and she found herself glancing down to his hand as it swung next to hers. But Ned made no move to bring them closer together and so she decided not to take the chance. She offered him the last of her doughnut instead and when he took it, she saw him grin and smiled again to herself.

It usually took them a good half an hour of small talk before either of them would broach the subject that had brought them together. The gap had been widening ever since she had first told him she was pregnant, and continued to grow every time they met. She had tried to ignore the awkwardness of it, and hoped it did not foretell of anything more serious. She had to keep reminding herself that they hardly knew each other. It would come, in time. After all, Ned had not argued with any of her wishes so far – from wanting to keep the baby to how they told her family. She could only hope that this discomfort was temporary.

After the customary long pause where they both stared quietly at their feet, she took the plunge and broke their silence.

'My dad wants you to marry me' she said with a small laugh. She remembered her father's face when he had told her, all serious and slightly flustered. It was the same tone which had coloured his voice now whenever he spoke to her. The one he had used for Lysa. She had laughed to herself at first before realising with a sadness that it would probably never go. He looked at her differently now. She was changed.

Ned considered her a moment. His expression was serious.

'Do you want me to marry you?'

It was not the response she had envisaged. She had wanted to break the tension and bring that grin back.

'We're not getting married' she said, a little too quickly. She wondered if there was any flash of disappointment in those stern grey eyes. Instead, Ned nodded sagely and folded his arms, a wistful look on his face.

'It would be better, really. For the baby. But maybe that comes later.'

'You're damn right it does!' She shouted then and a woman who happened to be walking past jumped back a few paces. She hadn't meant to, but this was not unfolding the way she had wanted. Where was that stupid grin?

He fell silent again and lowered his gaze, his arms still crossed and closed to her. She licked her lips and found another stray grain of sugar. It melted quickly on her tongue.

'I'm sorry' she said quietly. 'I mean, this is a big enough change as it is, without throwing that in too.'

Her hand went to her stomach without her thinking. She was doing that a lot recently, and had tried to stop. It was such a silly thing to do, but it yet it gave her a happy little glow to do it. The warmth of it spread and gave her renewed confidence. When she looked up, he was gazing down at the place her hand lay.

'I'm sorry too' he said softly. 'I just…'

He trailed off but let his gaze remain. _He looks lost_ she thought as she watched him, and her mouth twisted in to a shy smile. _Well so am I. Welcome to the club. We're in this together._

'You just….?' She reached for his hand and took it slowly, and he did not resist. She continued to smile encouragingly even though he couldn't see it. He kept his eyes down.

'I just want to do the right thing' he said in a measured tone, this solemn looking man looming over her. She could not deny that she had hoped he would stay with her, and not just as a father. It excited her to look at him, to be near him. She had been wrong to think him the weaker brother. She had mistaken silence for a lack of opinion. His hand felt good in hers.

When he pulled it away, she felt sad for a moment until she realized it was so he could answer his cell. He listened wordlessly as the world moved around them, turning his back towards her so that she could not hear his mumbled response. She turned back to the sea and watched the waves again, waiting for him to return to her.

When he did, that stern expression had not altered. Sometimes, it was easy to think that he only had the one. Then she recalled the grin, and the measured little smirk he had given her in the darkness of her bedroom, and the shy half look from over the coffee cup and the one when he…..

'I have to go' he said. She looked at him expectantly, but he just stared back and offered her no more of an explanation.

'Trouble?' she asked. There was always trouble these days. She knew little of the details. Her father did not take her in to his confidence like he used to – he had Edmure for that, and she was too fragile now apparently to be exposed to such things - but the violence had begun to spill out in to common knowledge and the news reported on the shootings daily. She had not cared much to begin with, angry that she had been shunned, but now it was pulling them all back in to a life she had thought they had left behind when Aerys died. In her darker moments, driven by her quiet frustration, she had cursed every last one of the Greyjoy family for their brutal selfishness.

But he shook his head.

'No, I just have somewhere I need to be.'

He lent in and kissed her again, his mouth warm on her cheek. She wondered if had lingered a little longer that time but she couldn't be sure. She let him go without protest. He was not hers yet.


	27. Chapter 27

Cersei.

It was a rare occasion, them all being together, and so she noted that the fine china had been brought out. Her father did not smile – he would never smile - but she could tell that that he was at least approaching his approximation of happiness. Maybe that was too strong a word. Satisfaction might suit better. And why shouldn't he be? His eldest son had been allowed a rare night free from skulking after Robert and had joined them for dinner and the new head of the old empire was already becoming pleasingly in debt to him, spending money he did not yet have to open more and more strip clubs and decorate his homes garishly. As to the other matter, Tywin hardly spoke of it. It was becoming clear that he viewed the Greyjoys as no more than a mild inconvenience to be snubbed out quickly. No one could stand against her father once he had turned his ire toward them. Cersei could remember the tales her aunt would tell, whispered over dinner, about the men who had tried and failed to bring Tywin low. It was something of an urban myth, the body in the foundations of the hotel. Legend would have it that the unfortunate man lay almost directly under Tywins' desk chair in the floor of his office. Reyne had been a real man, Cersei was sure of that, but she had never asked her father if the rest of the story were true. Others had come, others had fallen. Aerys last, Balon now and maybe Robert next.

She had worn the diamonds again. The necklace was too much for a quiet family dinner, even in a house as grand as this, but yet she had worn it all the same. She regretted it now; it hung around her neck like a great weight, blaring out in defiance of her father's silence. He had not asked about Robert for days now and in his indifference, she had felt the burden of his disapproval.

Eventually, as the sweet course was being cleared away, he ran a finger around the rim of his wine glass and asked her the question she had been dreading.

'So, can we assume from that disgustingly gaudy trinket around your neck that things are going well with the boy? Have you secured his affections yet?'

She glanced to Jaime but his expression gave her nothing.

_I need your strength _she thought. _Do not hate me for this._

She smiled sweetly at her father.

'I believe so. He fawns over me like a love sick lamb.'

Tywin was not moved.

'I need him to do more than fawn and send you jewellery. Jewellery, I might add, that our money probably paid for. He spends it so recklessly, he's quickly loosing track of what's his and what I'm lending to him.'

She could not deny that that thought took some of the shine off of her present. She fingered the jewels absent-mindedly. It was the thought that counted, she reminded herself. He had given it to her. Her father's golden green eyes remained narrowed.

'So' he continued between sips from his glass. 'Have you slept with him yet?'

The nonchalant manner in which he asked the question was so jarring she could only stare blankly for a moment. Across the table, she could practically feel the heat from her brother.

'What! You can't! I….'

It was a pale approximation of horror she was feeling, but it was all she could muster. Her father cut her off before she could manage any more.

'Don't act so affronted Cersei. We are all adults here. You won't have secured him until you bed him. And be quick about it. I need him in my debt in more ways than one.'

Her fingers curled around the tablecloth until her knuckles were white. Anger made her find her tongue at last.

'Most fathers would balk at the idea of their daughters sleeping with anyone, and yet you chide me for being too slow about it!'

Tywin only raised his brow laconically.

'You have your mothers' talent for drama. Unfortunately, not her wisdom. Let us be honest; there's only one part of a woman that Robert values and until you provide it, he will look for it elsewhere. '

He hesitated then, sighed, and put down his glass. For the briefest of moments, she thought he was going to reach out and hold her hand. Of course, he didn't.

'We must make ourselves indispensable to Robert. It must be unthinkable for him to cross us – for anyone to cross us – just as it once was. Bind yourself to him, and we shall be family. And who is more trustworthy than your own family?'

Cersei could not look at him, could not look at either of them. She stared instead at the empty plate in front of her and concentrated on the delicate flowers picked out in gold along the edges, trying to suppress the screams that threatened to escape her. She had not expected for it to be spelled out so bluntly. When she had composed herself enough to look back up, Jaime met her eye with a look so black and fierce, she feared he might rip their father apart at any moment. She pleaded at him wordlessly.

_Be calm _she begged silently. _He is wrong, but he is our father still._

'I think you have misread him' she said, summoning the very last drop of self control she could find.

'Robert will not love me any quicker if I sleep with him. In fact, the opposite might be true.'

It was not some thought plucked desperately out of the ether, to try and argue with him. She had thought about this for a while. Everything she knew of Robert, and everything she had heard, told her it was true. Holding herself away from him was the reason he stayed so interested.

_Not the only reason._

She touched the necklace again, and felt the tangle of feelings it brought, crawling up inside her like a strangling vine. Lust, hope, fear.

_He wants me for more than the promise of my body. More than the promise of your money. I know it. _

Her father intruded on her private reflections.

'Well, you know him better than I. Just see to it that things progress. I need him Cersei. I need him on my side.'

He pushed his chair back and made to stand, but she was up and walking away before he was. There was no way she could remain and hold her tongue. She wanted the sanctuary of her bedroom and the privacy of her own mind. She wanted a hot bath and soap to scrub away the humiliation. She wanted Jaime…

Tears pricked at her eyes but she blinked them away furiously. By the time she had reached the stairs, she was stumbling blind. When the hand took her by the arm, she hit out with angry, vicious fists until he overpowered her and held her tight against his chest.

'He expects too much of me' she said bitterly, swallowing down the anger. It slipped down in to the pit slowly, sharp like razors. Above her, she felt him kiss the parting of her hair softly.

'If you tell me to, I'll kill him. I'll kill Robert.'

She snapped back up, and pulled away from his arms.

'And what would that achieve?'

He looked at her curiously.

'Everything. If he's not here, then you can't be forced in to being with him.'

She realised she had been too quick to rebuke him. He might have seen the horror in her face. She did not want Robert dead. No one was forcing her to want him.

'If not Robert, then it would only be someone else' she said, trying to sound defeated.

'Killing him would only put you in danger.'

She moved back towards him, trying to resume their embrace, but she felt the tension in his arms and looked up to see the doubt in his expression.

'The girl I knew would never let people order her around like this. Even her own father.'

'That girl was stupid and naive. She's gone. I am a woman now. And I need to see the bigger picture.'

He did not let her back in.

'What bigger picture? Dad has Robert bent over a barrel as it is with all the debt he's racking up. He doesn't need your cunt to seal the deal.'

The anger came back in a flood, filling her mouth like bile. Her fist caught him full in jaw, leaving an angry red mark across his face. It was not enough to knock the smirk from his mouth.

'Maybe I don't mind being with him, did you ever think about that?!'

She hadn't wanted to say it but he was looking so damn smug. He didn't look that way anymore.

'What do you mean? Are you actually having _feelings _for that animal?!'

'So what if I am!? I'm allowed to! He's attentive and kind…and…'

'And rude, arrogant, selfish and stupid! Is that the kind of man you want to be with?!'

'At least I _can _be with him!'

The tears stung her eyes again, and this time they fell. She could see that she was hurting him but she couldn't stop. The words came tumbling from her before she could think, on a wave of bitterness.

'He can hold my hand in public. He can kiss me if he likes and no one would care. I could marry him, be with him, have his children. I could wake up with him every day and no one would bat an eyelid. Don't I deserve that?! To have a normal life? Not some fuck in an alleyway once in awhile! Can you give me that?! Can you?!'

She didn't want to hear his response. There was nothing he could say that she wanted to hear; nothing that could undo what she had said. Because it was all true. It was all so painfully, stupidly, hideously true.


	28. Chapter 28

Sandor.

He was eating in the kitchen when he heard their exchange. One of the maids had made him a little plate of something; scraps of meat and a little bread, a handful of vegetables left over from the table. It was getting cold now but still edible. He would have been thankful for anything at all really. He wouldn't be able to go home for another few hours yet and the smells wafting from the dining room had pulled him in search from something to fill his belly.

He had heard the sharp scrape of a chair leg pulled quickly across a wooden floor, heard her footsteps too across the room and then the hallway. Instinct drove him to his feet and half way across the kitchen before he had time enough to stop and listen. She was speaking now, her voice wet and soft, and he could almost see the delicate way her eyes would be glistening even though she was hidden from him. Her brother was there so he retreated back a step or two, although he recognised the particular smack of flesh hitting flesh and he almost ran to her again, flooding at once with that same old impulse. But she was angry, and he was laughing, and he knew that she had been the one to strike. The front door slammed, and then she was running up above him, along the landing. He waited quietly until he heard the faint sound of a bath filling before he finally returned to his seat. He ate the rest of his meal in silence as he listened to the far away splash of the water and tired not to give in to the images that were beginning to seep in to his mind. Images of her sinking slowly in under the steaming hot water, droplets scattered across her skin like jewels, her hair wet and heavy across her back. He shovelled another mouthful of tepid potatoes in to his mouth and tried to concentrate on something less painful and confusing.

All thoughts of leaving had been scrubbed from his mind weeks ago. The Greyjoy attacks had changed all of that, reviving his ardent loyalty like gasoline thrown on a bonfire. They were his family and they needed him and his particular skill set. It didn't matter that she made his head feel heavy and his mouth as dry as sand whenever she looked his way. None of that mattered at all when compared to what losing their trust would feel like. Tywin had sent for his own personal doctor when he was hurt, and Sandor would not forget that. The wound to his leg still ached whenever he walked but the hurt was a blessing, a constant reminder of his employers' generosity. He owed them his life, countless times over.

He had been four when he first realised that his brother was not like other boys. He didn't like to think about that time much nowadays, because it made him feel pretty foolish. He had been blind, lost in a childish world full of childish things, imaging fairytale endings still existed. Their father would retire and move them to a beach house on the front. They could set up a business together - him, his father and sister – and make enough to keep them comfortable. He might have gone to university, or become a cop, and married a pretty girl. A girl named Esther perhaps, who had a curl in her hair…

But Gregor had opened his eyes to the true nature of the world. And so had Aerys after him, and so did Tywin now. Cruelty and violence got the job done, and those at the top just sat on top of a cesspool of their own making, crawling across dead bodies just to get a little higher. At least Tywin was honest about it. The others just acted like their shit didn't stink and ignored all evidence to the contry, even when it crept up their nostrils.

He must have been lost in thought because he didn't notice that he had company. In the half shadow of the doorway, Tywin stood like a statue made of black granite. He was inspecting his fingernail slowly, although Sandor doubted he would find anything untoward there. He stood quickly, brushing the last of his dinner from his mouth with a nervous hand. Tywin did not move at once, but rather remained still and silent as Sandor looked on expectantly. When he did move, it was with all the deliberate care of someone who had never needed to hurry in his life.

'Busy?'

Sandor shook his head. He wondered how long he had been stood there.

'Cersei will have no more need for you tonight' he said casually, and for a heart stopping moment, Sandor wondered if he had somehow seen in to his thoughts. But it seemed that Tywin's powers had not yet extended to telepathy.

'I have need of you elsewhere' the tall man continued, eyeing the empty plate and the crumbs on the table top. Sandor shifted uncomfortably.

'You're aware of the work your brother has been doing for me?'

Sandor did his best to hold his eye despite the almost physical pain it caused him. It had taken years to train himself to do it and his natural instinct to hide away under anyone's' gaze still dug in to him with iron-like claws. But that was Gregors' work, and he had almost beaten it out of himself now. Every eye he met was a middle finger to the brother who had told him not to look. Still, he had no desire to enter in to any discussion about him. He knew what work Tywin was referring to and so he simply bobbed his head silently. Tywin seemed intent on elaborating regardless.

'This situation with the Greyjoy's has served us well in one respect. It has shown us who our loyal friends are. And, conversely, who are our enemies. Your brother has been doing well in rooting them out, but there always seems to be more rats than there are hands to crush them.'

_Don't ask me to work with him. Don't ask me that. Anything but that. I've spent so long trying to get away._

Sandor flashed frantically through the possibilities, of all the things he could say if Tywin gave that order. Ever since Gregor had come back last summer, tails of his brothers' competence and skill had been filtering down to him in filthy, muddy little trickles. Surprising really. Brutality took no skill at all.

'Unfortunately, he can't be everywhere at once and so I'll need you to take some of the work off his hands.'

_He's won't be there. He won't be there. _The words ran across his mind over and over again, soaked in bitter relief.

'It seems the Greyjoys might have had help in gaining knowledge of our distribution set-up' Tywin continued, disdainfully. 'In particular, the apartment building. Someone tipped them off.'

Sandor wasn't listening properly. His mind was too busy unravelling the knot of rage and fear in his stomarch.

'Strange really, when I paid them well above minimum wage' Tywin went on with a disbelieving sigh. 'Quite reasonable, when you consider I didn't have to pay them at all. Still, people like that are never going to stay loyal – you can't trust the lower classes. Such a pity. They were good at their work.'

Sandor tried to come back in focus again, ignoring the disquiet that the knot had left inside him; the mixture of regret and release, all the things we wanted to do and all the things he was scared of doing. Most of them were the same thing. All of them for Gregor.

'Go the apartment. I'm having them set things back up for me, so let them finish their work. But then they can all die. I want it done cleanly Clegane. Make it quick.'

Sandor had not quite caught up. He heard scraps of words. The apartment came back to him in a torrent of red and bile as he remembered the last time he was there. The man whose face he had crushed beneath the butt of his gun. The black flood that had exploded from the stairwell and the screaming that followed…

For a moment, he could not recall any of the people who had worked there. Most of them had died that day anyway, and now the rest would follow. He couldn't care less. But then other little memories came back to him, like the tinny radio and its strange Latin music. And the cigarettes he had rolled, sitting in the corner. And the girl with the curl in her hair, who he had never spoken to and yet knew all about. Who had survived that attack after her friend pleaded with end of a Greyjoy gun and died in front of her. Who would be there now. Who would be waiting. The pieces fell in to place in front of his eyes.

He couldn't bring himself to think her name.

'Get it done. Then you can finish for the night.'

Tywin had not asked a question and yet he was looking at him with expectation painted on to his steel features. Sandors' mouth was dry and coarse. His tongue grated across his mouth as he tried to speak, but what else was there to do? Nothing.

_I owe them my life._

He made himself look her in the eye when he did it. He was easier to remember her dead than alive.


	29. Chapter 29

Cat.

Her presence was a discomfort to them. She could see it in the way they avoided her and cleared their throats a little too loudly as she walked past. She would have laughed if she had been feeling cruel. Instead, she decided to leave them to their uneasiness and remain gracefully silent. She slid amongst them with her eyes cast forward and her head held high, to take her seat next to the men who had not long ago looked on her as an equal. Strange how something so natural could be viewed with such distain. It was as if her being pregnant had reminded them of an uncomfortable fact that they had previously forgotten; that she was, in fact, a woman.

_I am Hoster Tullys' daughter. I have had a place at this table since I was 16 years old, and you will remember me before this is all over. _

There was a time that she had been the only woman there. After her mother died, and Lysa had shown no great inclination towards business matters, there had only been Cat left. A girl in a room of grown men, yet she had never felt as if she should have held her tongue. Her father had always given her room to form her own opinion, and the freedom to express it. When he asked for her input, she never felt as if she were being patronized.

The dynamic had changed a little nowadays. Now she had had to argue for her right to even be there, and she could feel from the iciness that surrounded her that her views would not be welcomed as they once had. Still, she had had enough of being removed simply because her situation caused too many old men to feel awkward. What fragile sensibilities these great and powerful leaders had.

There were other changes stirring also, she noted as she took her seat next to her father and brother. Tywins' daughter, her of the golden hair and unsmiling eyes, had joined them for the first time. Cat had been curious about her ever since her return to Miami, catching only glimpses as she moved elegantly past, like a mirror image in an alternate reality. She seemed lonely. Cat had once entertained the idea that they could have been friends, back in that other life she seemed so fond of thinking about lately. She watched as she took a seat in between her father and Robert, elegantly laying her hand across the arm of the latter and leaning in close to whisper in his ear. She wore a pencil skirt and silk blouse, in shades of cerise and cream, with delicate diamonds on her ears and wrist. Cat looked down at her own attire – faded jeans and a button down check shirt – and for the first time that day felt a pang of insecurity.

The boardroom was full, and the air beginning to become sticky. A waiter dispensed glasses of ice water and Cat sipped hers silently as she eyed the faces around her. Her father was like stone, grave as she had ever seen him and saying nothing. Jon too was quiet, looking less than comfortable in his crisp linen suit. She noticed how his thumb rubbed against the new gold band around his wedding finger and she wondered if it was an unconscious move of unspoken affection or whether the thing was just uncomfortable. Moving around the table, she was met with more and more solemn faces. Stannis and Pycelle, decades apart in age yet looking so similar now under such a grim expressions. Varys too, although Cat had never been able to tell what that man was thinking. All his expressions seemed one in the same – mild surprise at something faintly pleasant. Petyr, she could not even bring herself to look at. She was in no mood for that strange, knowing leer.

And then finally, there was Ned. He sat apart from the rest, at the opposite end of the table, surrounded by no one. _He has no one left _she reminded herself. He had sent Benjen up north – some old family home in Chicago – presumably to keep him out of harms' way although he would not say for sure. It made her sad to think of him rambling around that old house alone, filled with memories and nothing much else. She kept looking at him until she caught his eye and stole a smile from him. In an instant, all her insecurity melted.

When Robert spoke, they all turned to face him. When he made to stand, he looked taller somehow. That suit sat well on him now.

'Give me good news, someone. Tell me I'm close to finishing off these bastards.'

He made to take a drink from his glass before realising it was only water. One of the waiters hurried forward sheepishly with a bottle of beer and Robert seemed to knock half of it back in one gulp. It was Stannis who answered his brother first.

'They've retreated back to the docklands. The lot of them are holed up behind barbed wire, armed to the teeth and waiting. They know they're on the run.'

'Idiots' muttered Robert, taking another drink. 'The longer this goes on, the bigger the hit to our profits. I want to smash them all. I don't want a single Greyjoy alive by the end of this.'

Tywin spoke this time, placing his finger tips together slowly. His voice was low, and Cat had to strain to hear him. No doubt he had intended it that way.

'I would advise restraint' he said, sitting back in his chair. 'They are isolated, alone, contained. The end is near, and it will be like shooting fish in a barrel. No need to be too heavy handed.'

Cat could see that Robert felt chastised, and was waiting for the whip-like flare of his anger to rise and break over Tywin. But instead, he seemed to swallow whatever impulse might be brewing and simply regarded the other man with a cold, steady gaze. She noticed too Cersei's hand on the back of his thigh. For some reason, it did not seem quite like the supportive gesture it could have been but rather the expert touch of a lion tamer soothing a raging beast. Cat realised then just how deeply Robert was indebted to them. The boy she remembered would not have cowed before anyone, even Tywin Lannister.

'Nevertheless' said Robert carefully, 'I want it done and done quickly. Are we agreed? This is how it ends?'

There was a ripple of agreement throughout the room. Pycelle took his turn next.

'Shall we get down to the business of who and when? I believe that Tywin can provide us with ample men and arms to get the thing finished quickly, if we are all happy…'

'No, this should be a joint effort. The Greyjoys have hit us all. It is not just Lannister businesses that have suffered. We can't give them all the glory.'

Her father broke his silence with a voice calm but hard, and looked Tywin in the eye as he did so. Cat could not help but smile.

'And what losses have the Tully's suffered, exactly?' said another from the darkness of the corner. Cat had not even noticed Jaime, standing in black against the shadows of the room. He came forward in to the light slowly, a lean young man with the same cool smirk as his sister except that his eyes danced along with his smile.

'Forgive me' he continued, addressing the table in general, 'but I think I'm right in saying that not one of your premises took a hit.'

'We were all affected, Lannister. Don't act the fool. You know we all had to pull together to cover the losses it caused us.'

Jaime continued to give his sleek smile. 'I have no argument with you Tully. I'm just calling the facts as I see them.' He spread his hands out with palms upwards, feigning innocence. Cat noticed the little exchange between him and his sister; a flicker of approval.

Robert was still standing, and he brought his fist down hard on the polished wood with a thick crash. The room fell silent.

'God dammit, I don't need you sniping at each other! Stannis will go to the docklands. He has men enough Pycelle before you start flapping so shut your mouth. He'll lead the assault there. Anyone who feels they want to lend muscle is welcome. As for Balon and his kin, I'm going to hit that slimy bastard right in his home and watch him squirm. While Stannis is wrecking the dock, I'll be smashing down that fuckers' front door to cave his skull in.'

Tywins' expression did not change. He raised an eyebrow slowly.

'Is that wise, putting yourself in the firing line? Let me send Jaime. My son would be happy to carry out your justice, wouldn't you Jaime?'

He did not turn when he addressed his son, but continued to regard Robert carefully. Behind him, Jaime shrugged and gave a grin.

'Sure. Why not?'

Cat felt for sure that this would be the tipping point. She could practically see the rage in Roberts face, but he continued to surprise her as he held his voice steady.

'No. I want to do this myself. I never needed someone else to do my dirty work for me, and I've been up in this tower for too long. I need to be back on the streets, where people can see me, hear me, know what I can do. Like it used to be. I want to watch that coward snivel. Me and Ned; just like it used to be.'

All eyes turned to the silent young man at the end of the table, grey eyes hidden as he looked down. He had combed his hair back, making him look a little like his father. He had worn a suit too, although had left the jacket off and the tie was loose at his neck. Small sapphire chips glinted in his cufflinks. Cat felt a terrible lurch in her stomach as she watched him raise his head and look his old friend in the eye. She knew already what he would say, but his words came to her no less painfully.

'If you need me, then I'm there.'

She wanted to stand and shout and tell him to not be in such a hurry to die; to not follow his friend so blindly in to danger. There were so many others who could do it, so many others she didn't care about. She would scream that he was needed, wanted, had to stay alive. But of course, she didn't. And in that moment she knew that she loved him. The stupid grey eyed boy at the end of the table.


	30. Chapter 30

Victarion.

The word came to him early morning, when the phone woke him from his half-sleep and pulled him back in to the cold, empty bedroom where had collapsed, exhausted and aching, yesterday afternoon. He didn't understand it at first, and the voice at the other end had to speak it twice before the meaning hit home. He staggered up, looking for clothes until he realised he was already dressed. He took a mouthful of water from the glass on the bedside, but it tasted of dust. He had not slept in this bed for months. The mattress bore the mark of his wife's hip and shoulder, and when he had fallen there yesterday, he had caught the scent of her, still slight on her pillow. But there was nothing of him. He had not slept much of late anywhere, let alone here.

He was in the car and driving before the thought of her crossed his mind, although it was only fleeting. If he was lucky, she would have stayed in the city and be wrapped up in one of those warm, overpriced hotels she was so found of lately. He opened the window for the rush of air, and thought perhaps that the smell of something foreboding was in the wind. Somewhere, something was burning. He kept his heavy eyes on the road and tried to focus, but as he turned a bend the docks came across the windshield and he was confronted by an angry orange rip across the skyline. The smoke poured upwards from the fires like the breath of some foul sea beast, and even from this distance, he could see the husks of the warehouses already gutted by the heat. It was all he could do not to swing the car around the head straight for the inferno, but Balons' voice rang in his mind solemnly, causing a physical pain somewhere in his chest. He roared a string of curses in to the wind and put his foot to the floor, driving at full speed all the way to his brothers' house.

Balon met him at the door, his face lined and hollow like a skull. He hurried his brother inside wordlessly, and Victation noted with a growing unease the number of men that stood in the hallway and rooms beyond, armed and looking like the grave. Balon had never liked having his men too close or too obvious. He always said it made you look weak, or worse - vain.

Downstairs, Alannys was sat in her nightdress with her hair wild and her eyes stained with wet mascara. The youngest children were in her lap, silent and still, staring at the men around them with wide eyes. Asha tried to wiggle free when she saw her uncle, but her mothers' clasp held her firm. Balon said a hurried word to Harlaw and Blacktyde as he passed, before continuing down the hallway. Victarion followed, but not before he saw the pair of them begin to harry Alannys and the children up. She didn't say a word, but the muffled sobbing trailed behind her as she disappeared upstairs.

In the kitchen, Balon was stood at the table with his back to the door. The only light came from the blinking display on the oven and the single bare light bulb above his head. It made the shadows rise up black and sharp, and showed up all the thread bare patches in Balons' suit. As Victarion came towards him, he noticed other faces hanging silently in the gloom. Euron was there, like a ghost at the feast. Victarion touched the crucifix hanging under his collar and finally spoke.

'Aeron…?'

'Is at the docks' finished Balon tersely.

'Then we have to…'

'No' said his brother, cutting him off. 'It's a mess there. Aeron will be fine, he'll have gotten out.'

The insincerity cut like glass. Victarion moved around the table to face him, the grid in his belly becoming hot and feral.

'We have to get down there Balon! Have you seen it? The whole place is on fire! Our business…'

Balon looked up sharply. He had not shaved, and the light struck all the sunken voids of his face, making him look as though he was wearing a vicious mask.

'There were hundreds of them' he said coldly. 'Hundreds. Tywin and the boy send the whole west side down on us. We'll get nothing by going back there. We need to regroup, and…'

'This is madness!' Victarion felt sick with the feeling. He had the urge to snap and break, wretch and kill. Anger made his focus sharp, like a knife point.

Euron stepped forward, unfurling in to the pool of light like ink in to water. Victarions' skin pricked at the sound of his voice.

'For once, I would agree with our brother. We can't hide here.'

Another voice came to him then from the darkness, one he had not thought to hear. Carellen was in her nightclothes, wrapped up in her blue silk dressing gown. Her face was bare, washed clean of makeup, and her hair was pinned back that way she wore it to sleep in.

'No, Balon is right. You can't be reckless. Not now.'

She gave her husband a slow, cautious smile but Victarion could only stare. Stare at the way the silk had slipped from her shoulder, and the exposed skin underneath. Stare at the space between her and Euron, and the way her hand had fallen just inches from his. Stare at the way he glanced at her from his one, black eye, and the lingering uneasiness that crept up from the inside of him. He wanted to vomit. His fist curled and in that second, he wasn't sure which one of them he wanted to hit more.

But then someone shouted from the hallway and in the next instant, the room was blazing.


	31. Chapter 31

**A.N: **Thank you so much to those who have left reviews so far. I really, really appreciate it. Seriously. You guys all rock and I love you all. Onward!

* * *

Cersei.

She was dammed if she was going to wait at home for a phone to ring. Not this time.

She had driven herself to Robert's hotel, defying all her fathers' orders and stubbornly ignoring all the prattling maids and butlers who tried to stop her as she walked up to the private apartments. Luckily, she had brought the boy with the scarred face with her who was very effective at sweeping them all aside. Nevertheless, she found it strange that the first time she would enter this place would be like this, alone and scared.

And she _was_ scared. She would not admit that to anyone, even under pain of torture. Fear was not a useful emotion in this world, especially for a woman. But yet how could she not be? Her brother, her twin, the only one who understood had once again thrown himself in to dangerous waters. That alone would be enough to set her insides in to a dangerous tilt. But Robert was gone too. The pride she had felt in the boardroom when he had sworn to burn down his enemies had sustained her for the last two days, but had now been replaced by a cold, still feeling that threatened to weaken her resolve entirely. Once again, she was left helpless on the sidelines of her own life; fated to watch as other people took the risks and she was left to deal with the debris they left. So she had dressed herself in skin tight black silk, given her lips a coat of scarlet red and entered the room as if she belonged there; as if it had not been complete until she had returned to exist within it once again. She ignored the dark glare from her father across the way. She would wait for them here, just as he did. Because she was just as good, and just as worthy, as any of them.

Seeing who her fellow roommates where simply confirmed that belief. Robert seemed to have invited most of the city to his private bar, to wait for his glorious return. Tully and Arryn, Pycelle and Varys, and the youngest Baratheon brother, Renly, perched somewhat nervously on a bar stool. Some others she didn't know; some, she didn't care to know. She grabbed a passing waiter and ordered a martini before taking up a seat away from the rest of them, looking out of the massive panoramic windows that the bar was blessed with. Her bodyguard slunk silently behind her and stood just out of her eyesight. She forgot he was there until she heard his stony voice rasp behind her. She turned in her seat to find him stood in front of a girl with chestnut hair, barring her from coming any closer. Peering past him, she saw it was one of the Tully girls. The oldest one; the one who had let herself get knocked up by Eddard Stark.

'Clegane, it's fine. Let her pass.'

The girl was older than him, and yet he still towered over her. He towered over most people. Cersei liked that about him. She couldn't help but smile as she watched that little submissive dip of his head as he moved aside, all under her command. She wondered if he shared a temperament with his brother, the animal. She enjoyed having such a fierce creature at her disposal.

Catelyn Tully took a seat next to her, and Cersei regarded her suspiciously over the rim of her martini glass. The two of them had hardly ever spoken and so she wondered what this plain little woman had to say to her.

'I hope you don't mind. I thought we could wait together.'

Cersei gave her a look she hoped was suitably derisive.

'Oh really? I hadn't been looking for a companion.'

The girl did not seem put off. In fact, annoyingly, she seemed spurred on by the rebuke.

'Well in all honesty, I could do with talking to someone other than my father. Someone my own age. We have common ground after all.'

Cersei sighed and set down her glass, crossing her legs as she sat back and looked at the girl from top to bottom. She did not dress like a woman of her status should. Hoster Tully was one of the old guard, well known and still feared in some circles. Catelyn and her siblings had gone to private school, and would inherit a name and business that, while was in no way comparable to her own, was still enviable. But she dressed like any of the other high school girls littering the sea front on the weekend. Her hair was always vaguely messy. And of course the cardinal sin that Cersei could not overlook – getting pregnant by accident. At least she could give her points for the choice of father. A Stark was a fair choice, she supposed, if you liked that kind of thing. The older brother had been a much better catch, but never mind.

'Go on' she said, intrigued. Catelyn smiled encouragingly.

'Well, you know. Both of us here, waiting for our men to return.'

She laughed nervously before dropping her gaze quickly to where her fingers knotted together. Cersei's first thought was for Jaime and she felt the lurch in her stomach again, the rising bile. She took another swift gulp from her glass.

'Robert is not 'my man'' she said pointedly. Catelyn looked back at her apologetically.

'Oh, I didn't mean that. I just thought…. Well you seem close. And Robert and Ned being so close too, well.'

She trailed off for a moment before seeming to compose herself. When she spoke again, she seemed to have found her confidence.

'There's something between you, anyone can see that. And of all the people in this room right now, I'm the only one who knows what it's like to have someone you kind-of, sort-of have a possible but-not-quite relationship with out there in harms' way. So yeah, I thought we could hang out.'

Despite herself, Cersei had to laugh at that. But somehow, it seemed to break the tension and so she allowed the other woman to remain. They did not share many more words. It was enough to just have someone else there to share her silence, and they smiled cautiously whenever they caught the others eye. It did not feel awkward, but rather seemed to become something almost noble. She gazed wordlessly out in to the blooming sunlight and remained still, waiting, quite sure that she alone was the only one who bore this burden with any dignity. All around them, the others continued to drink and laugh and chatter as if the world continued to turn. She knew differently.

When the phone rang, all voices stopped. Cersei did not turn, but continued to look out of the window as the room held its breath. When the cheers went up, and they all exhaled, she allowed herself a tiny smile but nothing more. The lurch in her stomach broke like a wave across her, crashing down with all the weight of her worry and anger and relief, like a scream in the darkness, but not one flicker of it would show on her face. Not one.


	32. Chapter 32

Cat.

They came in through the doors like conquering heroes, on a wave of cheers and gunsmoke and the faint aroma of sulphur. She stood, frozen, trying to see his face amongst the lot and for a horrifying moment thought that he was not there. Robert came first, his face sweaty and smeared with soot and blood as if he had crawled out of some corner of hell by his finger tips. She had not seen him like that in so long. The suit was gone - the clothes that had confined him. The grin across his mouth was raw and red, and fitted him better than any shirt and tie could. The light in his eyes was like a fire; a bonfire, a raging forest inferno. It lit him up.

She looked past him when she could, to the others as they followed him in. She saw Jaime Lannister next, scorched and dark, wearing his battle dirt like a badge. He grinned too, but with the satisfied glow of someone whose joy was now behind him. For Robert, it was still all to be had. She watched Cersei stand, expressionless, as he came towards her and she looked so stiff that it seemed as if she would snap when grabbed her. But as his dirt black hands took hold, she seemed to soften instantly. He pulled her to him without any tenderness and for the first time that morning, as he whirled her around, Cat saw her smile.

But she had no time to think on that. She turned back to the door, still searching. Thoros and Jorah were in front of her now, laughing loudly. She tried to dart between them, avoiding the hands that came surging forward to congratulate and applaud. Free at last, she stood alone and wide eyed in the centre of the huge room, holding her breath.

And then.

She wanted to kiss him, but there was something in the way he held himself that kept her at bay. He stood taut, on edge, as if held on a wire. There was blood in the corner of his mouth, drying already and dark like a dying rose. He had the beginnings of a bruise over his eye, the colours of rotten fruit. When he looked at her, she wondered if he even saw her. His eyes seemed lost, elsewhere. Tentatively, she reached out to try and pull him back. When her fingers made contact across the back of his hand, the connection seemed enough to break the solemn silence he had wrapped himself in. Smiling, she came closer and nudged her fingers insistently against his, forcing her way in. As his hand closed around hers, her nerves broke in to waves of laughter and still giggling, she brought her head in to his chest and closed her eyes. He smelt of fire and the cold. It was brilliant.

A hand on her shoulder brought her out of her secret world, and her father was standing next to her. His blue grey eyes crinkled at the edges as he smiled.

'It's good to see you back safely' he said with genuine warmth. Standing between the two of them, Cat felt the safest she had felt in a long time. Ned kept her hand enclosed in his and she was beginning to become a little light headed.

'It was quick, at least. We shouldn't have any more problems now.'

He glanced across the room to where Robert still had Cersei in a bear grip, a beer in the other hand, telling war stories. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

'Robert wanted to burn the house down around them…'

Cat followed his gaze to his friend, still laughing and bloody. Cersei had untangled herself from his embrace but stayed close, still smiling. Hoster sensed the tone and tutted sadly.

'That's why he wanted you there. You balance him. He knows that. Maybe not consciously, but he knows it nevertheless.'

'Perhaps' said Ned, quietly. 'I've always known what Robert is, and what he isn't. But today…'

He let his head drop a little then, and she felt the new stiffness in his fingers. She tried to hold on tighter, to let her warmth flow in to him.

'He would have killed them all' he said coldly. Cat wondered if it was sadness she could hear in his voice, or maybe regret.

'But he didn't. Robert is a fighter' she said softly, aware of the other ears nearby. 'He did what needed to be done. He always has.'

His look said more than words did. Between them, she felt his thumb slowly run along the back of her hand and she smiled sadly.

'Well it's over now' said Hoster, a little too brightly. 'And we really are glad you're back safe' he added with that same earlier affection. Cat watched him leave with a mixture of emotions, deep in the well of her where the new life she carried now grew. He had smiled at her too when he walked away.

She didn't notice that Ned had stayed silent too until he was suddenly clasping her hand tighter and pulling her, awkwardly, away. Cat could only laugh as she was led, tripping over her own feet towards the corner. She was still giggling when he stepped in close, and she had to swallow down hard to stop the shaking. She concentrated instead on the seriousness in his face; so familiar to her now and still so unreadable.

He spoke quickly, as if the words would disappear unless he got them out.

'I know I haven't been what you needed me to be' he began, not letting her correct him.

'I know that, and I'm sorry. But I've made a decision, and I wanted to tell you first, because it affects you.'

He took a deep breath.

'For so long, there's been nothing for me here. Robert doesn't need me, not like your father thinks. I saw him today, watching that house begin to burn. He still wants blood and glory, but I've had enough of that to last me a lifetime. I know things between us are strange right now, and I have a commitment to you, but I need to do this.'

His pause gave her a chance at last and she seized it, asking a question she already knew the answer to.

'Wait, what are you saying? Are you… leaving?'

To his credit, he didn't break her gaze. It didn't make it any easier to hear.

'I'm going to Chicago. Benjen needs me there. This city… it's just too much now. I've done what I can for Robert. I can't do anymore. I'm sorry, I know your family is here. I know that.'

'But you can't! Ned, this is mad. I need you with me. We're having a baby…'

'Cat, listen. I have to…'

'I can't believe this is what you want. I thought… I thought we….'

'Cat!'

He kissed her suddenly, stupidly, and when he pulled back, she couldn't bring herself open her eyes. She heard his voice come from faraway.

'Cat, you're an idiot. I want you to come with me.'


	33. Chapter 33

Sandor.

He had gotten soot all over her blouse. When he moved his hands across her, he left smears of ash and blood in his wake like the trail of some vast colonizing machinery, ripping across unspoilt woodland. He felt the corner of his mouth twitch and bit the inside of his cheek involuntarily. The sharp little pain was enough to distract him for a moment. It was all he needed. Enough time to look away and focus on something else.

The room was sickening happy. He had never seen such misplaced celebration. It was if Robert had brought down a mighty empire, not tried to burn down a couple of children, asleep in their beds. The business with Aerys had gone to his head, and this slick, fake display before him now simply confirmed what he had long suspected. The man was no less rotten than the rest of them. Whatever good he had done last summer was being washed away by this tide of insincerity and sadly, he sensed another little light being snuffed out.

He had admired Robert once. Admired him for his strength and ferocity, and the way he had taken care of his own. He and his brothers had been alone in the world, but they had risen far higher than any orphaned street thugs had any right to. And last year, he had been the only one – the only one in a city full to the brim of blood thirsty men – who had had the guts to put down the mad dog. Even Tywin had bet on the wrong horse then, but he supposed even great men are allowed to make the odd mistake.

But now, in the aftermath, Sandor was beginning to think that maybe they had all gotten it the wrong way around. Robert should have been the fist but he wasn't fit to be the brains. This city had sucked him in, chewed him up and spat him back out dressed in a suit and tie, changing his very nature. He had forgotten the grit and the sweat of the street, and pit from which he had pulled himself. Where were his family now? Stannis wasn't even back yet and the party was in full swing regardless. He had not once stopped to embrace the younger brother. The hypocrisy was starting to make him feel sick. Looking at him made him feel sick. He took a drink and downed it in one, hoping that alcohol would once again bring him some calm. At the very least it would make him numb. He was so sick of _feeling. _

There was so little quiet time now. Even when he was alone in the dark he could not turn off the thoughts. They wriggled and crawled all over him like he was covered in a pit of worms. And every thought came with a new emotion, searing in to him like he was being burnt. If it were just anger, then he could have coped with that. Anger was an old friend; he knew anger. But everything else? He had no use for them. He couldn't dress himself up in jealousy, could he? Would that make him strong? No. What good was regret, or disgust or fear? How would they serve him? They were alien – burrowing in to his mind more and more every day, and making him dizzy with confusion. He couldn't sleep anymore. His nights were filled with these hot, bright colours and the faces they evoked. He thought increasingly of his sister. He lie awake, choking on his own tears until he thought he might vomit. And in the centre of it all, this little kernel of something bright and glittering, burrowing away deeper than all the rest. That particular heat was the worst. It made him know for certain that he was not like other men- how could he be? Desire wasn't something that hurt so much. If it did, then they wouldn't spend so much time chasing it.

He drank some more and wandered away from the crowd, not able to leave yet loathed to stay any closer. He watched her from the far end of the bar, stiff and awkward under his greasy fingers and he found himself hating him even more for making her that way. Robert was truly drunk now, whether by drink or by applause, and he seemed to have lost all care for her. When he lent in to whisper in her ear, she smiled thinly but he noticed the careful little way she arched her neck, letting his lips touch her as he spoke. Under the weight of his grip, the glass in his hand almost cracked.

Jaime had taken a bar stool next to him, although he didn't noticed him at first. When he did, he laughed somewhat bitterly.

'Something funny?' said the other man. There was ash in his hair and across his skin, and a few rips in the coal black of his clothes. But no blood, and his hands were surprisingly clean, until Sandor realised he would have been wearing gloves.

'We're surrounded by idiots' he said, still laughing. He included himself in that number, although he didn't say it.

Jaime shrugged and helped himself to a beer from behind the bars' counter, winking at the barmaid as he did so.

'Yeah, but at least it's the winning idiots.'

Neither man moved to look at the other. Sandor kept his gaze out across the room.

'You would have enjoyed today' Jaime continued in between mouthfuls. 'Good sport. Very much your kind of thing.'

Sandor snorted.

'Sport? Is that what it is? From what I hear, he burned their house down while they were sleeping.'

Jaime snickered quietly.

'That's not entirely true. They put up a bit of a fight. Although admittedly, I would have preferred to have been where the real action was, over in the docks. '

Stannis had arrived by now, looking grim as he ever did, and receiving not one half of the praise that his brother had had heaped upon him.

'Your father required me elsewhere' was all Sandor could say. Jaime had spoken the truth though, and he would have dearly loved to have been out there in the thick of it instead of here, dealing with all this shit in his head.

'Ah yes, bodyguard duties.' Jaime fell silent for a minute or two and Sandor became aware that he was sharing the path of his gaze. His sister was still in Robert's arm, being wheeled around like a doll. He was talking to her again, pushing his drunken face closer in to her ear. Her expression was becoming less and less well hidden, although she was not making much of an attempt to move away. The two men sat in silence for a little longer before Jaime put down his beer, half drunk, and stood.

'I've had enough for today' was all he said, a little distant. He left quietly, without anyone but Sandor seeming to notice. He went back to his drink and consumed it entirely before moving on to the next in quick succession. He knew he his duties were not finished yet but he didn't care. It was easier this way.

'Everyone! Everyone, stop! I have an announcement to make!'

Robert was standing on a table, a little lopsided, with arms outstretched. Everyone around him was laughing and clapping. He shouted again, over their noise.

'Everyone, listen!'

Hers was the only face not smiling. She looked up at him with eyes blazing, mouth drawn taut in anger. He was ignoring her though and continued to shout. Drawn by curiosity, Sandor stood and walked towards the crowd.

'Today, I'm celebrating. Celebrating a victory! That weasel-faced bastard won't even be able to take a shit unless I tell him it's ok!'

A great raucous cheer went up, and Robert wobbled worryingly for a moment before joining in.

'And there's more!' he shouted. 'Wait, wait, there's more!'

For the first time since beginning his little speech, he seemed to look down at Cersei. She shook her head quickly, her eyes still wide, but he just laughed.

'I'm also celebrating for another reason. Hush, all of you, hush! Yes, I'm celebrating today because I have just decided something. Something good. I've decided I'm going to make this beautiful fucking girl here my wife! Whose up for another party?!'

The cheers were almost deafening as the room seemed to burst with their approval. Sandor found himself being battered between the crowd as they started to jump and holler, raising their glasses up in to the air and spilling their drinks. He could no longer see her, but Robert was leaning down, trying to pull her up on to the table with him. When the crowd did break, and he managed to push through, he had never seen her so angry.

'Aww come on, baby. Come up with me. Let the people see! I mean it, I'm gonna fucking marry you!'

He couldn't hear her response, but he could read it well enough in the way she pulled away from him. He had his hand around her arm, and the way she jerked herself free almost caused him to lose his balance.

'Hey! Don't walk away from me! Hey!'

As the cheers went on, he stumbled from the table after her with his hand outstretched. He caught her just as she was about to disappear in to the crowd.

'Hey! Wait! Don't you fucking embarrass me like this! Cersei, don't be a fucking bitch!'

She turned to face him, her mouth already open to spit back venom, he was sure of it, but she never got the chance. The sound of his hand as it struck her face was like the smack of wet meat hitting marble.

And then there was just the terrible red.


	34. Chapter 34

Cersei.

She had never known a silence like it. It was not just the absence of their cheers; it was the absence of _any _sound at all. Later, when she thought about that moment alone in her bedroom (and she did think about it again – over and over) she doubted her own memory. It seemed impossible that a whole room could cease breathing all at once. Equally so that the air could stop moving or that every car in the street below would come to a stop at the exact same time. Yet her recollection of that instant was very clear. The moment stretched out before her endlessly and there was simply nothing at all within it.

She didn't feel the slap, only the sting afterwards. It happened so quickly that for a second or two she didn't realise what exactly had taken place. Shock shut her down, biting down in to her muscles with iron teeth, and closing her off. Her body became a foreign place and she was aware that she was looking down on to the scene from some point far away. Again, her memory seemed to playing tricks on her but yet she could only ever recall it as if she were the observer, watching with fascinated horror from high above. She could see the glisten in her eye, a diamond-like sparkle at the corner of the green, and the almost painted look of surprise across her features. Her hand was at her cheek, but no sound escaped her. She would not give him that satisfaction. The tremble in her shoulders was unmistakable though and she cringed to see it. She remembered only the sudden flood of heat that had coursed across her as the truth of the moment had dawned on her.

Their shouts had not died instantly. Only those near the centre of the crowd had seen what had happened, and their gasps had spread in jumps across the rest until all eyes had turned to her. She had looked across their blank and starring faces with fear; if any of them had dared to laugh, or even so much as smile, then she had no idea what she might have done. But thankfully, they had all had the good grace to be shocked.

She recalled her fathers' face most clearly. In the sea of disbelief, he had remained as stoic as if carved from icy rock. Every disapproving line and crease had been scored deep, and his eyes never left her – a look she knew well. He was waiting to see how she reacted before he gave away his own feelings, such as they were. Would she act like a normal woman should, or like a Lannister?

Slowly, slowly, like a glacier thawing, she had returned to her own body. The sting had become a bloom across her skin; a deeper, harder kind of pain that made her jaw ache and the first thought she had was Jaime. She came to know later that he had already left, but at the time she could simply not understand why he wasn't there. He was her justice, the sword that would execute her wrath. He was all the things she was not allowed to be. Without him, what was left? Her mind, cut loose and racing, found itself recalling a time in their childhood when a boy had last hurt her. A friend of their fathers' from New York had a son that would be allowed to play with them when their parents talked business. Cersei couldn't recall his name, only that he had been older than them and stupidly entitled for someone of his position.

Sometime during an afternoon play date, he had decided that they should play hide and seek. Whilst Jaime counted, she had run to conceal herself behind the thick brocade curtains that hung in the study. Her little body had tucked in perfectly on to the broad windowsill, and she had pulled her legs up in to her, muffling her giggles in her knees. The boy must have heard though, because he found her there and wanted to hide behind the curtain too. When she refused to give up her position, he decided to pull her out by her arm. She remembered her thoughts vividly, which was strange considering it was so long ago. She knew her father was in the next room, and he would be so angry at her if she disturbed him. She knew also that her mother would hate to have a daughter so helpless and pliable. For a moment she was conflicted, torn between which path to take. But then Jaime came and her dilemma was solved. He wretched the boy from her with ease, even though he was the smaller of the two, and punched him so hard his nose exploded in a spray of blood.

Cersei had watched them from the windowsill, smiling quietly. She knew then she would never have to make a compromise between what her father wanted and her mother expected, not while she had Jaime. Even after her mother died, and the conflict was less acute, she had never felt the need to negate on her principles. She would not defile her mother's memory like that, and besides, she had no need to.

So now, alone and lost without her right hand, she had no idea what to do. In the echoing stillness of the room, she heard a faint rushing begin somewhere in the back of her head. It grew louder and louder, until the rush became a roar and then a torrent. In front of her, she remembered Roberts' eyes looking back at her, glaring still with the heat of his drunken anger, and she felt the snap inside of her. She didn't care if her father saw. Her rage was so sharp, there was just no way she could not answer it. He had ruined it for her, utterly and completely, and she would have no satisfaction until she had clawed his face clean off.

She was not prepared for the storm that came crashing in from behind of her. In the confusion, she didn't recognise what was happening, only that a great blackness seemed to descend across the room, like the shadow of a beast. In a second, it was on Robert. Cersei couldn't remember hearing a sound, although yet again her memory must have failed her. Maybe it was because it all happened so quickly. Maybe because she was unprepared. Whatever the reason, the first noise she heard was the gasp from Robert as a hand came down tight around his throat, lifting him back off his feet. Then came the gasps again, louder this time round, and a shout from somewhere in the back. In her shock, her anger lost it's heat and in her clearing vision, she at last came to recognise the tableau before her. The boy was taller than Robert – she had never noticed how much until now – and had him with both of his hands. She could not see all of his face, but the part that was facing her was twisted in such hate that she thought for a moment that she was looking at the scarred side. She could tell by Robert's panicked expression that he was as shocked as she was. His hands came up limply, to scrape at the iron fingers around his windpipe, but they could do nothing. As the blood came thundering back in to her mind, she felt sick from the rush of thoughts that overtook her. She could not help but take a certain joy at the pain and no doubt humiliation Robert was suffering, but the impulsive rage and the need to see him pay were starting to ebb away.

In to the silence, her father spoke.

'Clegane! Let him go.'

The boy did not move, but she saw the twitch in his mouth and the flash of confusion in his eyes. Robert was beginning to regain himself, and despite the lack of air, she could see the malice come back in to his expression. His hands were now around the boys wrists, tightening.

'Clegane!'

Her father spoke again, not quite a shout but louder than before and it seemed to boom around them. But it was not to him that the boy looked. Cersei was struck by the expression on his face. In an instant she knew she had the power of life and death on the tip of her tongue. One word, one look, and she knew the boy would end Roberts' life then and there. God knows the bastard deserved it. The injustices that had been done to her where too countless to name. He had had no right to make her feel the way he had done. No right at all to make her weak and vulnerable in his hands. No claim to the love that was so rightfully Jaime's. The man in the boy's hands became her father, became her mother, and all the other people who had let her down or fenced her in. One word was all he was waiting for, and he would do it for her.

And yet.

Again those words hung in the back of her consciousness. She didn't need to look– she could already feel her fathers' eyes on her. The woman that she was would have had them burn. But the Lannister that she must be could not.

'Let him go.'

The confusion in his face was palpable, but he followed her command almost instantly. Robert stumbled backwards with his hands at his red throat, spluttering. But it took him only a second before he had regained himself, pulling the gun from it's holster and coming forward.

'I will kill you!' he was screaming. Cersei had never seen him so angry. For a second she worried he was coming back for her, but it was the boy he was aiming at. From nowhere, hands came out to grab at the gun, at Robert. Eddard Stark had his friend in a bear hug, pulling him away, throwing the gun to the floor. It was only then that she noticed that the boy hadn't flinched. In fact, he hadn't even looked at Robert. His eyes hadn't let her the entire time.

'I think we all need to calm down' said Eddard loudly. Robert was still thrashing in his grip, still biting at the air. The boy paid them no attention.

'I want him fucking dead!' shouted Robert.

The boy didn't even blink. His hands hung loosely at his sides, suddenly useless. Cersei found herself unable to look away, so strange was his gaze. But in the background, she was aware of another pair of eyes watching her. Ones like hers. Emerald and flecked with gold.

'The boy was just doing his job' she said carefully, standing up straight, pushing her hair back behind her ear.

'A little over enthusiastically, but still…'

She licked her lips, smoothed the wrinkles from her blouse and took a deep breath. Only then did she look away from that scarred face and that expression that pulled at something deep inside of her. She walked across the clearing towards Robert, still tangled in his friends' arms. As she came closer, she became ever more aware of the throb still on the side of her face. She bit down on the ire that rose with her words.

'My love, don't be angry. We're all a little over tired, a little drunk. Let's not spoil the party.'

She laid her hand cautiously on to his arm, felt the tension there. But it was enough to make him stop struggling and look at her. Eddard must have felt the change too because he let him go. Cersei smiled sweetly and even managed to lay a gentle kiss on his soot soaked face. When she turned back to the boy, his expression seemed unreadable although it reminded her of a dog that had been kicked but had not run.

'This man is going to be my husband' she said loudly, to the room as much as to him. 'Understand? You will not put your hands on him again.'

She looked back at Robert, and was relieved to see the rage had left him. She took his hand and let him kiss her. As he lent in, he whispered in her ear and his slurred apology felt as sour as his breath.


	35. Chapter 35

Victarion.

The fires had been relatively easy to put out in the end, considering how large they had become. Victarion had sat in his car, watching across from under the dark shade of an overpass, as the fire crews had done their work. The inside of the car had smelt like ashes and gasoline, so he had rolled down the window to get some fresh air before remembering that there was none to be had out there. The wind carried the smell of the burning docks to him, bitter and cold. Still, he left it open all the same. He needed the sound. Even the snap and hiss of the burning was better than the empty, ringing silence that had come with him in the car.

As he watched the orange and golden blaze dance across the dark water of the harbour, he remembered there was a half-eaten burrito in the glove compartment and that, suddenly, he felt extremely hungry. He wolfed down the cold food in just a few mouthfuls, all the time watching the play of lights on the water. The moon was a pale ghost, casting ribbons of white across the ripples in between the red and yellow glow of the fire and the blue flash of the fire trucks. As he sucked his fingers clean, he realised it was the first food he'd had in days and his stomach was rumbling greedily. He had sat there and watched the fires for nearly three days now, only leaving the car when he needed to take a piss up the side of the stone wall. Now, under the eerie illumination of the moon, the flames were dying. There was more smoke now than anything, and he could see the burned out husks of the outbuildings and sheds that had been the heart of his brother's business.

He put the key in to the ignition, ready to turn it, but hesitated. He was not sure what he was going back to. His impulse was to stay here and wait, to be still a while longer. He wasn't sure what he was meant to be waiting for.

He did not know if they had found Aeron yet. He had watched the police boats trawl the water during the day, and seen a few dark shapes pulled from the depths. He was too far away to see who or what they were. When he had driven away from the ruined wreck of the house, he had not known whether his younger brother was alive or dead. He had not known a great many things in fact, and as the hours had passed with lead-lined slowness in the quiet of the car, he had come to understand just how unsteady his world had become.

The image that clung to him most fervently, like a thick moss across his memory, was of Balon. There had been blood on his face and across his knuckles, and the ragged tear of his shirt had revealed the thin and sinewy flesh beneath his clothes. Victarion could see the folds of his skin and the shadowed dip of his collar bone as he had stood above him, and had remembered thinking that this torn old man, made of so much flesh and bone, could not have been his brother. Balon had been kneeling, his head dipped low and his gun empty and lifeless in his hand. Behind them, the hollow of his house had stood smoking and black, torn open like his shirt. If Victarion could have reached him, he would have pulled him to his feet, shaken him till the sense returned and put fresh bullets in his gun. But he had been held back with his arm twisted painfully up his back, too far away for his shouts to make any difference. He had watched, helpless, as Balon had handed the last of his families' dignity away amidst the flaming wreck of his life. He had been so angry that when he had finally wretched himself free, he could only run and run far in the opposite direction. He could not trust himself to not do something stupid to the old grey man who seemed to have taken on the body of his once proud brother. The tension bubbled inside him like sulphur, belching up under the surface of a lake. The days waiting had done nothing to quell it, but hunger and a desire to know about Aeron was starting to overtake it instead. His fingers found the ignition again, and this time he turned the key.

He found the house still in ruin, black from the flames that had threatened to gut the very heart of it. But in the cold day light, the damage did not seem as bad as he remembered. Perhaps that was because they had had a chance to clear much of it away. Most of the windows had glass in them again, and there was a new front door where once there had just been splintered wood. The sidewalk glittered though as he came closer, and the crunch underfoot told that they had not yet swept up all the debris. The air remained stained with the old smell of burning. He was getting so bored of that smell.

He did not recognise the cars outside. Dark suited men in sunglasses stood along the front porch, watching quietly as he approached, but no one stopped him as he came up the steps. In the half-dark of the front hallway, he became immediately aware that something was not right; something more than the burnt and broken exterior of his family home, and more than the strange bodyguards crawling over the outside like a swarm of invading insects. Voices from the kitchen led him deeper in to the house, towards the source of his uneasiness. When he came in to the light, the found it sitting at the kitchen table.

Robert Baratheon was quite changed from when he had last seen him. He was cleaner now, dressed in a shirt that was open at the neck. His jacket was slung loosely across the chair – his brothers' chair – and as he raised his hand to sweep across his closely shaven black hair, Victarion caught a glimpse of diamond in his cufflinks. Five more of those black suited men stood just behind him, their faces seeming to hang ethereally in the gloom around him. Even inside they wore their sunglasses. Victarion would have laughed had he not been so angry.

At the other end of the table, Balon was sat in silent reflection. He too was not as Victarion remembered. The shirt was whole again, the blood had been washed from his face and hands, and the iron-like expression seemed to have come upon him again. He too was surrounded by faces in the shadows, although Victarion recognised them this time. Amongst them, Alannys stood wide-eyed and visibly shaking. It was then that he thought briefly of Carellen.

'Ah the prodigal brother!'

Robert slapped the table jovially and laughed at his own cleverness. No one else did.

'I admit, was starting to worry that I'd made a mistake, letting you run off like that. But your brother here assured me that you wouldn't cause me any more trouble. It seems you just needed a few days to come to terms with your loss.'

Victarion came no closer, too unsure of what was going on. He looked to Balon but was met with nothing but blank stares. He turned back to Robert who had started to talk again.

'It took me a little while to smooth things over with the police' he was lamenting, although the tone of his voice implied anything but remorse. 'A lot of palms got greased, a lot of favours called in. Got me further in debt to my future father-in-law sadly, and I could have done without that…'

Balon cleared his throat and met the boy's eye carefully.

'Get to the point' he said tersely. 'My home is ruined. The docks are ashes. My sons…'

It was the first time Victarion had heard a crack in Balon's voice. It was small and hard to catch but it lingered in the air long after the words died.

'We have paid our price. Leave us be.'

Robert laughed and Victarion felt it like an icy kick to his stomach.

'Maybe. But this whole business has cost me time and money and I want your assurance that this won't happen again.'

Balon's mouth became a stiff line.

'What assurance do you need?' he answered slowly. Robert laughed again, sharper and more cruelly.

'Your word. That you recognise me as you did Aerys. This is my city Balon. I own it. And I own you. If you want to stay here, then I need that pledge.'

'You have it.'

Balon answered far too quickly for Victarion's liking. That sulphur in his gut began to burn.

'You rebuild the docks. You work like you did before, same terms, same percentages. Keep your family in line and I can promise you no more trouble. I see no point in tearing you apart. It worked before, it can work again. Are we agreed?'

Victarion could not hold it in any longer, at this pitiful exchange. Eyes fixed on Robert, he reached for his gun with a guttural roar. In a second or more he would have had his satisfaction. But anger had made him blinkered, and he had not seen the black suited men at his sides. A fist came crashing in to the side of his face and another got him in the stomach. He crumpled, bent over in pain, and his gun was wretched from his hand. Through the quickly thickening skin around his eye, he saw Robert laughing but he could not move any closer. Hands held him again, spreading his arms out and leaving his body exposed. Another fist hit him hard in the belly, making him splutter for air.

'This is exactly what I mean' said Robert, leaning back in the chair. 'Control your animals Balon, or I'll put them down.'

'My brother is still angry' said Balon calmly. 'Understandably so. I give you my word that he will not make any more trouble. Leave him with me.'

Robert regarded him silently, and Victarion could feel his life being weighed up.

'There is something else I'll need' he said eventually. 'If it was up to me, I would have had your head. I would made you walk the streets singing my praises just for my amusement and then shot you down in front of everyone when I'd had enough. And I would have thrown your body in the bay when the dogs had finished with you, just for the inconvenience your cold, rotting corpse would have caused me.'

Victarion could hear the whimper that Alannys made. Through the blood he could just about see Balon, still rigid and stiff, mouth still drawn, eyes unblinking. Robert started back across the table as he drummed his fingers slowly on the surface. The dull rhythm rolled around them like a rumble of thunder.

'But luckily for you, I have friends who advise me caution. And I'll admit, to have you alive and my ally suits me better than any other option. Still, I need something more than just your word. I don't much trust it anymore.'

He paused, inspecting the diamond in his cufflink for a moment.

'You had four children. How old are the ones left?'

Balon did not answer straight away, but seemed as confused as Victarion did.

'The boy is 4' he said haltingly. 'The girl is two years older.'

Robert nodded and looked back from his wrists.

'Your boy will come with me' he said coolly. 'I'll keep him as a safeguard against you doing anything stupid. If his uncle loves him, maybe it'll keep him in line too.'

From the back of the room, Alannys began to weep. Balon shook his head.

'I can't just let you take my son' he said slowly, but the fear in his words was beginning to show. Victarion tried to lift his head but it felt heavy from the blow. He tried to speak but his mouth tasted blood.

'You can and you will. I'll not harm him, I promise. He'll be ok. But I won't have him grow up here to be another traitor. He'll be one of my men. I'll give him a job and a gun and see him right. But he's coming with me today.'

The weeping had turned to screams. Alannys was being wrestled from the room by Balon's men, and her tear stained face was twisted in grief. Balon was stood now, his own expression black and terrible.

'You have killed two of my boys, and now you want to rip the third from my house? To live with you? So he can grow up vicious and vain?'

'Careful Balon, that doesn't sound too friendly.'

Robert remained seated but his body guards had moved closer around him, already bringing their guns up in to the light.

'These are my terms' said the young man casually. 'Accept them, or I will destroy what little family you have left.'

Another man had come forward too, one that Victration had not noticed earlier. Eddard Stark was not known to him well, but he recognised his features even from his prone position. He spoke with a soft voice, but one that held steady.

'The boy can come with me' he said, speaking to both Robert and Balon. 'I'm leaving for Chicago soon. I'll look after your boy there, away from all this. He'll be alright. You know me Balon. You knew my family. You can trust me.'

Balon did not sit down, but Victarion could already see the resignation in his face. Ten or more guns were fixed on him. Somewhere upstairs, his wife screamed again.

'This is the only way?' he said quietly. Robert nodded.

'If makes you any happier about it, then fine, Ned can take him. But one way or another, the kid leaves here.'

With a slump, Balon fell back in to his chair. He said no more, and just let his head fall heavily in to his hands. Victarion felt himself being pulled backwards, out of the doorway, to be unceremoniously dropped on to the cold, wooden floor. Above him, the screaming went on and on.


	36. Chapter 36

**A.N: **Have I told you how much I love you all for reading recently? Well I do. Thank you for baring with me while I wrestled this all together. I think we are nearly at the end.

* * *

Cat.

Folded in to sections and squeezed neatly together in the suitcase, the pieces of her life seemed suddenly rather small. She had not been sure what to pack in all honesty. All she knew was that Chicago was north and it was cold. It had been while she had been searching through her wardrobe for any clothes that might be suitable that the first cracks of doubt had at last shown themselves. It began with the slow and creeping realisation that she knew so little about the weather up there. Was it cold all the time or just the winters that were bad? Would she need a new coat or would the one she already had do? Her collection of t-shirts and denim shorts seemed woefully inadequate innocently lying there, and she began to worry that she would arrive shivering and severely under-dressed in to that strange new city.

One thought had lead to another, walking her along like a twisting garden path that trailed deeper and deeper in to the thicket. Starting down at the few meager items she had decided would be make the transition up north, she was quickly realising that she had not being paying attention. Somewhere, amid the excitement and thrill of the new, she had not realised how unsure she was feeling. No, maybe that was unfair. The truth was that she had known of, but had chosen to ignore, that cold core of feeling.

The last few days had not passed smoothly, and there had been plenty to distract her. After months of hardly anything but drunken parties and the slow unfurling of the city as it got used to life under Robert, it seemed like the wires had suddenly snapped and let everything run loose. In truth, the fighting had been the start of it, but because she had only heard about it second hand it had never seemed real somehow. When Aerys had fallen, she remembered the streets being ripped apart by fire and gunshots, echoing at every turn. She could recall the smell of gasoline and the roar of fire trucks all hours of the night. The old man had wrestled until the last, leaving the city as violently as he had taken it. But the Greyjoy's had chosen stealth rather than explosions, keeping the hammer blow on neighborhoods she hardly went to. She knew people had died, but she had not given them faces. She had felt guilty when she realised that, but she had had her fill of violence last summer. Things had only finally seemed real when she waited, nervous and unsure, in the bar of Roberts' hotel.

And then the crashing relief when he had returned unharmed, and the rush of feeling from the way she had gripped her hand. She remembered vividly the dream-like way the room had closed in around the two of them when he had told her his plans for Chicago, and her rushed, breathless acceptance; she never thought it would be so easy to leave.

But of course, it wasn't easy. Not at all. Without the bar, and the nerves, and the grip of his hand, she had begun to almost immediately think of all ways in which this was not a good idea. She had buried it deep, under layers of excitement and smiles, but it had been growing and hardening all the while. So much so that now, alone for the first time in days, the simple prospect of having to buy a new coat was enough to floor her. With a deep sigh, she crawled up on to her bed and drew her legs up towards her, nestling in amongst her summer clothes and staring blankly at the wall opposite. She did not know how long she lay there, quietly trying to clear her mind, but the sun was setting by the time she heard the door open downstairs. Drawn by the promise of human contact, she left her strewn clothes and half packed suitcase on her bed and softly made her way down stairs. Her father was sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen with his back to her, so she slipped up behind him, wrapped her arms around his chest and laid her head flat against his back. He smelt like the sea.

'Little Cat.'

His nickname for her made her smile sadly. She wondered how she would cope not hearing it every day. It would not be the same at the end of a phone. She did not let go.

'I thought you'd be out' he said, rubbing her hand with his own. With her face still pressed next to the fabric of his shirt, she could smell the coffee he had brought in with him. She didn't answer his question, only pressed herself closer, eliciting a rough chuckle from him. With care, he unfolded her hands from across his chest and led her out from behind him. Reluctantly, she took a seat next to him but let her head fall back on his shoulder again as she did so.

'Ned will be back by now. I heard everything went smoothly down at the bay.'

She kept her eyes downcast, made uneasy by his mention of Ned. She knew he had been with Robert today, and had worried for him, but not enough to pull her from her funk and that in turn had just added to her uneasiness. She didn't know if seeing him would help her at all right now.

Her father had been surprisingly supportive when she had come to him, still flushed with the thrill of it all, and told him her plans. He had offered her a generous little financial gift to help her set up her new life, and told her knew several favours he could call in to see her settled well. Pleasure had melted in to disappointment soon afterwards, although she had chosen to ignore that along with everything else.

'Am I being an idiot?' she asked quietly. Again that familiar chuckle.

'I knew this was coming' he said soothingly, turning slightly to wrap his arm around her. 'I thought you might have talked to your sister about it before now.'

Cat shook her head slightly. Once, her first instinct would have undoubtedly been to talk to Lysa but that door was closed. She knew that now. She pressed her lips tight together in an effort not to give in to emotion.

Her silence must have moved her father to action. He sat up straight, moving his shoulder out from under her head and causing her sit up too. She still kept her eyes down though, unwilling to look at him quite yet.

'Then talk to me' he said encouragingly. 'Tell me what has my little girl so upset.'

_Little girl. _Cat smiled wistfully. _I will always be his little girl. Even when I have this baby and am a mother myself, he will still look at me like that. But I am not a child anymore. He has always been so protective._

'What will happen to the club?' she asked. It was not the exact question she had wanted to ask but it would do. Her father seemed confused for a moment.

'Edmure will do his bit, don't worry. He might have to step up his game but he's getting more capable every day. Brynden will help too, just as he always has. Things will run smoothly.'

Cat nodded silently. She knew things would run smoothly without her. She just wasn't sure she wanted them to.

'What will I do in Chicago?' she said, more as a thought spoken out loud. 'I don't know that city. I don't know anyone there. My life is here….'

She trailed off, lost in her own head. She had gotten so much from working for her father. So much of her joy had come from being from being good at it.

'The Starks have some operations up there' said her father reassuringly. 'You know that. Rickard was always careful to keep it ticking over while he was down here. Same as the Lannisters have New York. Families like ours always have our fingers in many pies.'

Cat knew, she just didn't like it all that much. She was a Tully. She knew the way the Tully's operated. Her father squeezed gently.

'You, my girl, are the one of the brightest, most capable young women I know. The boy would be a fool not to have you involved in what he's running up there.'

Cat smiled warmly at the compliment. In her heart, she knew that this was all just masking the larger doubt that was clouding her mind.

'And then when he does, I have this child, and I'm living miles away from everyone I know and love…. What happens when it turns out that I really don't like him all that much?'

Only a week ago, that idea would have been almost unthinkable. She had taken a long time to get there but that thunder clap moment in the boardroom, looking at those stone grey eyes, had revealed the truth to her. Or what she thought had been the truth. Her nature was not to make rash decisions, and yet she had agreed to make one of the most ill thought out and strange decisions of her life. She had always known that she and Ned had been thrown together under somewhat strange circumstances. Take away the fight and the adrenaline and the grief and what would be left? Chicago would have none of these things, except maybe the grief. How then would their feelings unfold?

Beside her, her father smiled sadly and rubbed her arm.

'I could lie to you' he said thoughtfully. 'But that has never ended well for me. So what I will say is that you don't know this boy well. You have no reason yet to love him, and nothing holding you together except the baby. I never hid that fact that I would have chosen differently for you, and I still would if I could turn back time. But I can't. Your mother was always such a practical person; a trait I see in you every day. She would have told me to look ahead and think of the future rather than dwelling. So I look around at this city and I see the rot. I see the legacy Aerys left, and I see the way Robert does things, and neither fills me with hope. Rickard was a friend of mine, and I knew him well. I see a lot of him in Ned. So what do all these things tell me? That my daughter deserves to be safe and happy, and I don't think raising a child alone in this city will make you either of those things.'

Cat bit her lip, stung by the honesty and yet comforted by it too. It was nothing she had not thought of herself in the dark corners of her mind. Her father smiled again.

'You will always be my daughter' he said. 'Wherever you are, whoever you marry. You will always be a Tully, and there will be a home for you if ever you need it. But I think this Greyjoy problem was just the tip of the iceberg, the way Robert handles his business, and I am getting older. Jon will take care of Lysa, I have seen to that. And the Starks are a good name, a good family. They can take care of you.'

Cat was less comforted by this, but knew it came from a good place. He had only ever wanted the best for them all. She returned his smile.

'So I take a chance. That's what you're saying?'

Her father laughed and nodded.

'Isn't that we all do, really? How well did I know your mother when I married her, truthfully? Half of it's luck and other half hard work. But I know this; it's not hard work to love you. He will not find it difficult. And the child needs a father Cat. You must remember that. You must try, for it's sake.'

Cat nodded sagely, feeling the calm return to her as her mind became less and less cluttered. Purged at last, the shiver of doubt was being replaced by that simple, easy truth. Her own personal fears where inconsequential when weighed alongside what she owed her child.

She had always done her duty.


	37. Chapter 37

Sandor.

Her white fingers looked like slow rivers of ice trailing through the black hair on his chest, and felt just as cold. The red of her mouth hung just above him, ripe like a cluster of cherries, waiting to fall. His hand rose slowly to touch them, and his thumb ran along the thickness of her bottom lip carefully. He could sense the wetness there, just beyond the red, where her mouth waited. Just a little push, and he would be inside of her. Smiling, he could see she had read his mind and watched silently as she opened her mouth for him. Her teeth bit down gently, and he felt her tongue slip slowly over the hard flesh of his thumb. Her eyes were wild, set alight. He had never seen something burn so fiercely or so green.

When he woke up, he couldn't remember anything else except that green and a hard, uncomfortable sense of dissatisfaction centred in the front of his jeans. Painfully, with eyes still closed, he rolled over on to his stomach. A small groan escaped in to the pillow as his belt buckle dug in to his stomach, but he was too heavy with a hangover to move again so soon. The back of his throat tasted like vomit and every nerve felt as if it had been ripped out of his skin and sown back in with a rusty needle. He opened his eye a crack and tried to make sense of the world that was spread out before him. The sunlight was streaming in through the open blinds, bathing everything in harsh, unforgiving light. It made his eye water. He closed it and buried his face back in the pillow.

He guessed it was noon, or near enough to it so that it made no different. Even with a skin full, he never slept much later than that. He wished he could. Sleeping the day away would be preferable to actually having to live through it.

He groped around blindly by the side of the bed, his hand knocking against things in its lurching, causing things to fall. The sound of clinking glass told him he had scattered some beer bottled across the floor. The smell of spilt hops and alcohol rose up to meet him and made him want to vomit again. He swallowed dryly and cursed, conceding to at last open his eyes properly and look at what he was doing.

The bedsit was a mess of overturned furniture and broken things. He couldn't remember how most of it happened, only that every time he opened his eyes recently, something else was in pierces across his floor. Over every surface, too many bottles to count lay drained and useless. Some of them had been broken too. Sandor recalled with painful clarity the cut to the underside of his foot, still sore even after three days. The air was thick, full of ash and smoke and terrible breath. He ran his tongue over his teeth and felt the roughness there, tasting nothing good. Casting back to the floor, he found was he was looking for amongst the dead beer bottles and half drunk glasses of Jack. The water was stale and had sat there for over a week but it was like sweet nectar compared to the taste already in his mouth. He guzzled it down greedily, getting a fair amount on the pillow, before sinking back down in to the damp fabric and groaning again.

Was it five days now? Or maybe four? He couldn't tell. Days bled in to nights quickly enough, and as soon as he had the stomach to drink again, he could make the transition even quicker. Sometimes the booze was enough to blot out the dreams. Other times, he wasn't so lucky.

He must have fallen asleep again because he remembered being in the hallway, with the rain of bullets all around him and the never-ending roar echoing in his ears. It must have been a dream because when they came crashing in through the door way, Gregor was with them. His brother was like a monolith, a demon, a wrecking ball. His hands were on fire, like two blazing torches, and he swept everyone aside with just one smash of his blistering fists. Sandor tried to shout but his mouth wouldn't open. He could only watch in mute terror as those fists came down on to the girls face. Her name was Esther. He remembered the curl in her hair.

When he came to this time, the feeling of sickness had moved from his mouth to his belly and he had to stumble, half blind, towards the bathroom where he could wretch up the rest of last nights indulgence in to the toilet bowl. Sweaty and hot, he pulled himself in to the shower and stood there, fully clothed, while the water rushed over him. It was tortuously slow getting his clothes off, especially now they were wet, but he managed it somehow. He emerged cleaner but feeling no more fresh. He left the wet clothes in a heap on the floor and dressed again in slightly less dirty jeans and another crumpled tshirt before picking his way carefully through the bottles and broken glass to the bed.

Just as he was about to collapse there again, his cell phone rang. The name on the screen brought the bile back up in to his throat, but he answered the call all the same. He would always answer.

The clipped voice at the other end sounded stern.

'Clegane? Bring yourself to the hotel tonight. I have need of you.'

Tywin Lannister hung up without waiting to hear Sandors' reply. He rubbed his hands across his still-damp face and tried to shake the cloudy feeling from his brain, but knew it would hang around for a few hours more yet. The only options he had were to drink some more or try and sleep it off, and now he couldn't drink. He lay back, closed his eyes and hoped the dreams would be kinder to him this time round.

In the blood red cocoon that was the office of his employer, Sandor found himself having to lean against the wall a little in order to stop the room from spinning. The aspirin he had managed to force down his throat earlier in an effort to stop the headaches had done nothing for him and the air in the room felt tight and thin. He had not wanted to think about why he had been summoned; he had not seen or spoken with anyone that remotely resembled a Lannister for days now. His company had been the bottom of the bottle and little else, apart from maybe that sour faced man in the 7/11 that sold it to him without asking for ID. Now, being made to wait in this airless office with a head that felt like a lead weight, he had hardly any energy left to care. He would suffer whatever punishment they wanted to throw at him, he knew he deserved it. When Tywin came in, he just about managed to stand up straight but could do no more.

The man did not say a word until he had taken his seat behind the desk, checked his cellphone, adjusted the knot in his tie and made sure the neat stack of papers on his desk were correctly ordered. Only then did he even so much as look at Sandor.

'I see you have been using your free time constructively' he said with a tone that was thick with contempt. Sandor, acutely aware of every slept-in wrinkle in his clothes, could only uncomfortably shift his weight from one foot to the other. Tywin regarded him quietly for a moment, his eyes travelling from up the length of him. There was a slow intake of breath that resembled a sigh.

'Nevertheless. I cannot over look the loyalty you have shown to my family recently. You were given a job and you carried it out to the letter. If ever I had a doubt about your intentions, it has been utterly erased. Will you sit.'

He gestured to the leather coach beside him and Sandor did as he was told, feeling a little more secure now he was no longer required to hold up his own body weight. Tywin continued.

'Your brother has proved equally useful' he said, looking back to his papers casually so that he was unable to see the way Sandor 's hands clenched involuntarily.

'Although, admittedly I will be using him in a somewhat different manner form now on. I find it best to play to ones strengths.'

Sandor had known that Gregor was not going anywhere. Had known it for days. The confirmation still stung him though, even through the fog of his hangover. There was only two reasons as to why that had happened; one, that Tywin was unaware of the type of creature Gregor was. Two, that he was choosing to ignore it. Tywin was the sharpest judge of character Sandor had ever met. The end of that thought hung somewhere off in the dark and Sandor had no wish to follow it.

'So, this being the case, I find I am able to offer you a similar position' Tywin was saying, still looking through his papers.

'My daughter will marry that boy before the month is out. She does not want a long engagement and neither do I. Knowing Robert, it will be as tasteless and as tacky as everything else he does, but it will happen all the same and I suppose it will be expected that she live with him in order to at least attempt a happy marriage.'

He looked up then, setting the papers aside. When Sandor looked back, he was surprised to find him holding his eye. The intensity of his gaze was unsettling.

'You know the kind of man he is' said Tywin, carefully. 'As do I. Cersei will need someone…close, that she can rely on if things become difficult. I do not want to be indelicate Clegane, you know what I mean. Her brother will be Roberts' man. He will go where Robert tells him. I cannot watch her every day. You have already proven your worth in this regard. I would like you to continue in that post indefinitely.'

Sandor could do nothing expect nod silently. His mouth was too dry to say anything else, despite the words that screamed from inside his head. _Ask me anything but that. Anything. Give me the blood, give me the shit, the piss and stink of the world and the all the horrible people in it. I don't care. Anything. _

But of course, he said none of it. Tywin nodded sharply and returned to his papers, taking a slim golden pen from the inside of his jacket and beginning to mark his signature across the pages.

'We will talk again about your remuneration. Your accommodation will be upgraded, naturally. Perhaps a sum for some more suitable clothes. In the meantime, you can get to work tonight. Her car should be outside by now. You will see her safely home after her dinner.'

In a daze, Sandor stood and moved from the office, to the corridor, to the lobby beyond. The car looked sleek and smooth under the street lights, slick with a fine sheen of rain. He remembered the coolness of the drops on his face as he stepped outside but little else.

The inside of the car was vast, enough so that they did not have to be remotely near one another. She sat opposite him, facing backwards as they drove in silence, and looked his way only once. She was dressed in green, with a huge diamond necklace around her neck and her hands crossed delicately across her lap. As the streetlights passed by the tinted windows, the ring on her finger flashed brilliant white and red with each pulse of light. A heavy ruby sat encased in diamonds and gold, looking far too big for her slender finger. Sandor didn't realise he was starring until he felt her eyes on him again, and they regarded each other for a long minute. Her face was half in shadow, briefly illuminated each time the streetlight passed, like a steady heart beat. She had covered her bruise with makeup, so well it was hardly visible now. Still, he saw the shadow under her eye. The slight swelling to her cheek.

'I love him' she said then, matter-of-factly; a statement to the air it seemed although she was looking directly at him. She moved her thumb against the ring, making it twist and glitter some more. He nodded, and she seemed satisfied with that, turning that burning gaze away from him at last, back towards the window. So much like her father.

Except she was a liar now. They had made a liar of her and for that, he could never forgive them.


	38. Chapter 38

Victarion.

There was a fog rolling in across the water, creeping forward with each dip and lurch of the sea. The lights from the bay were fading, melting in to the haze as the boat moved further out in to the ocean, leaving nothing but a faint golden stain in the depths of the cloud. Victarion watched them silently from the prow of the boat, as morning crept across the city. Out here, sound came to you with no hurry. The slow lap of the water against the side of the boat seemed muffled, hidden under damp, cold air. Somewhere, a gull called. Even that lost its usual jarring cadence when surrounded by the dead calm of the sea in the very early morning.

Victarion revelled in the cold, feeling more at home amid the salt and sway of the water than he had ever felt on the hot, dry land. For a little while, he simply closed his eyes and allowed the boat to move him, wondering how easy it would be to never step foot on earth again. He could live the entirety of his life, whatever might be left of it, out here surrounded by the sounds and smells of the water. He might be content with that.

It was not the first time he had thought it. Over the last year, it had come to him with an increasing regularity, sneaking in to his mind at the strangest moments; a childish wish come back to haunt him. When he was a boy, and life had held much more promise, the family had owned a fleet of boats from quick little fishing vessels to a trio of luxuriously appointed yachts that they would take down the coast during the summer. Victarion had always liked the smaller ones best, the ones that lurched and fell with the swell of the ocean. The yachts were beautiful but they were too big to really feel like boats. On a still day, cosseted away inside the walnut studded interior, you might not even know you were on the water. When Balon had taken over, they had been the first things he had sold.

The boat Victarion sat aboard now was much smaller and plainer than those grand beasts from his past. Nevertheless, it was his and his alone. He knew every welt and join, every creak and moan that came from the wood as it moved through the water. At 17, it had been the first thing he had ever brought entirely for himself, with money he had earned from his own sweat and toil. The feeling he had from that cemented in his mind forever the lessons Balon had been so keen to teach him; that there was nothing greater than taking a pleasure well earned, and nothing worse than having it handed to you for nothing. If something was given freely, it had no value. Victarion had often thought that his brother had secretly been happy when the family fortune had dwindled. Fine things had never sat well on Balon, and it had given him the chance to work and scrape and wrestle his self respect back again. This – all of this – had never been about money.

But now there wasn't even much of that left anymore. Once the police had been paid off, and the cracks smoothed over with city hall, it hadn't left a lot of money left for rebuilding. But what had really stuck in the gut was that after all of it, the Lannister and Baratheon joint enterprise had decided to pay for the docklands redevelopment. A gift to the city, they said in between words, to repay them for being so tolerant. The truth was, after nearly burning it to the ground, they knew they still needed a functioning port in order to keep their business alive. Victarions' family was in no position to do it, so the generous Robert and Tywin had decided to help them out. The whole thing made him sick. Sick, and then madder than hell.

Cold, hard rage had been his constant companion for most of his life. From those torn up days back when he was younger, wielding a gun like an axe on the streets, he had known rage. It was a still, silent kind of anger – one that had grown up alongside him, twisting its way in to all the corners of his life, colouring every feeling he had ever had. So he had ignored it, lived with it, accepted it as part of his life. Sometimes, even used it to his advantage. He had always been careful to keep it wound tight though, least it run away from him.

But now…

He had begun to notice it the day he sat and watched the docklands burn from inside his car, although in all honesty, it may have been happening well before then. The thaw had come on slowly, loosening the wires inch by measured inch, easing their slip across from one another.

Once, alone and bored after being punished for some stupid youthful transgression, he had lay on his bed and played with a paperclip. Bending and re-bending the fine metal, he had wrapped it around his finger over and over again until it was tight against the skin. The tip of his finger became white as the blood was denied entrance, but he got some deep enjoyment from the dull kind of pain the wire exerted. He kept it wrapped around himself until the pain became so familiar as to become non-existent. When he finally unwound it, the pain came back even brighter and more acute than before; the flow of blood back in to his finger tip, the bite of the wire now removed from his skin, all of it sweet and aching at the same time.

The wires around his soul had come loose. He had felt them unwind. And under them, the bruised and marked skin where the blood had sat trapped, now beginning to flow again. With each injustice he had felt another one break and fall away.

When he had watched his family home set to flame, he had felt it.

When he had watched the docklands turn to ash, he had felt it.

When Aeron had been pulled from the water, half dead and broken, he had felt it.

When he had seen Balon sit in his kitchen, allowing his last son to be dragged away by strangers, he had felt it sharp.

And when she had told him – with that small, strange voice that he had never heard from her before – that all his fears had been made real, he had felt it. None of the words he heard after made things any better. He didn't want to think about it again. In truth, he _couldn't_ really think about it anymore. All he could recall were fragments now, snatches of things half coloured in red and grey. Like the pulse in her wrist and the darkening pool that grew around her head like a halo.

But now the wire must be rewound, and the ice reset. Balon had made that quite clear as he had helped clean up the mess, looking again like the older brother he remembered from before the fire, and Victarion would not argue. He had taken careful steps to make sure the wire was turned good and tight. The pain was sharp now but soon enough, it would become familiar again and he would forget it. He could already feel himself beginning to slip back in to cold, comfortable balance. The fragments of this memory would be buried with the rest, never to be spoken of again.

The cold was beginning to bite a little, even though the sun was getting higher. Daylight would be on them soon, and he had been given strict instructions to be back before morning hit. Next to him, the trash bags were covered in a glitter of sea spray. That, combined with the bricks inside to weigh them down, made them hard to lift but with a firm grip he managed to haul them up. They fell with a dull splash in to the water and vanished with no more ceremony than that. He watched them blankly.

He had thought about taking the ring back, but had decided against it in the end. It had suited her so well.


	39. Chapter 39

Cat.

Her father drove her to the airport, with Edmure sat in the backseat and the radio playing quietly over the silence between them all. Every so often, Cat would glance over and catch her fathers' eye, and they would share a half-formed smile. Once, he reached over and patted her knee in an odd manner, like he was petting a dog. It made her laugh and then he did too, and for a little while the silence didn't seem too strange.

Lysa couldn't come, and so Cat had said her goodbyes to her earlier that week. She had been unsure of how she felt about that, but now she realised she was glad she didn't have another person here to add to the awkwardness. Not that it hadn't been strange with Lysa; they had hugged but there had been no warmth to it. Cat thought she had seen a flash of resentment in her sisters' eyes – a reproachful look, hidden underneath the small smile that had spread no further than her mouth. Cat thought she knew why but she couldn't understand it. Had they been alone, she would have asked her about it outright and hopefully, left on better terms. But as it was, there had been no time in which to try and address the balance. Cat had promised herself that she would ring Lysa as soon as she got to Chicago, and ring her every week afterwards. She knew that the distance between them was now well established, but the thought of them becoming even further alienated was a pain she really couldn't deal with right now.

No one wanted to drag her departure out, least of all her. Her father held her tightly but briefly, and pushed a thick roll of dollars in to her hand as he pulled away. Cat opened her mouth to protest – he had already given her more than enough -but he waved her words away and would not let her finish. She stuffed them in to her purse quietly, making another promise to spend it on something nice for the baby. When Edmure tried to shake her hand, she laughed and hugged him instead. She knew she had held him for much longer than he was comfortable with, but it still seemed to be over all too quickly. Cat made them drive away rather than linger or walk her in to the airport. It had seemed easier to do it that way, but she couldn't ignore the hot, tight feeling that spread across her face as she walked briskly towards the departure lounge. It remind with her all the time she sat waiting at the gate; now an insistent little knot at the back of her neck, and a strange, impatient little twitch in her foot.

The flight gave her time to collect herself; unable to turn back, the knot began to melt. She liked flying, and occupied herself by watching the whipped cream clouds that stretched out like a blanket under the plane, like a relief map of a strange, otherworld. She thought about Ned, and tried to replace uncomfortable nervousness with its more pleasing counterpart, anticipation. He had promised he would be waiting for her at O'Hare, and she imagined how good it would be to see his face again. It had been three weeks now since they had last seen one another, when he had left Miami for good. The house he had grown up in had been sold and stripped of any last vestige of the family that had once given it life. He had even dug up the rose bush that had grown in the front yard – something his sister had planted as a child. Cat didn't know if it had made the journey up north, or whether it would be waiting to greet her on a lawn or in a plant pot in her new home. A small voice inside of her wished quietly that it wouldn't be. She chided herself for thinking it but the little voice did not back down. She didn't want to walk in to a mausoleum, to be surrounded by the relics of someone else's past; things that would forever be strange and unknowable to her, reminding her that this was not her home, not her life, and that she was just a visitor here. The rose bush was just a pretty plant. She had nothing against it, nor the girl it represented. But she was moving across the country to start her life anew, away from the horrors of last summer and the death it had brought. Ned was already withering under the weight of all his memories. She knew it would crush her too if she let it.

But a rose bush was a small sacrifice in comparison to what she knew was definitely awaiting her when she got off the plane. Ned had told her, with a hesitant tone and downcast eyes, about the Greyjoy child and the circumstances that had led to his arrival in Chicago. Cat had met the news with a stoic and unswerving expression that gave away nothing of the war of feelings she had been experiencing. The logic behind his decision had been sound, and she had shuddered to think what kind of cold, disjointed life the boy would have had left in the hands of a still-angry Robert and the Lannisters. But her initial feelings of disgust had stuck hard in her gut and were not so easily removed. Her heart returned almost constantly to the boys' mother, and the sense of grief so thick it must have became something physical, something that wrapped itself around you at night. She had not even seen her own child yet, but she could scarcely imagine anything so vile as being parted from it.

She had tried to give her feelings a voice, but Ned had made it clear that the decision had been made and he would not change it. Cat had understood, partly at least, but had not liked it. She had tried to talk about it with her father, to see if he could put it in a kinder light. But between his sad smiles and talk of 'things that needed to be done', she could find nothing any more palatable. In the end, it had come down to the fact that she wanted to be with Ned, no matter what, and so she had decided to bare her discomfort. The child would have a good life, she would see to that. He would be a friend to her own little one. Perhaps when he was older, she would help him return to his parents. She was becoming a creature of little hopes, all strung together on delicate wires, covering the pit of uncertainty that lived in the core of her. A hundred bright little butterflies, that could either stay and make a home, or disappear entirely.

The rose bush was not in the front yard, nor in the extensive back garden that stretched well off in to the distance and ended up buried somewhere in a mass of shingle oak and elm trees that hid the house and grounds from the view of the world. She found out later that it now lived in one of the spare bedrooms, in a plant pot on the windowsill. She didn't mind that so much. The house itself was large - far larger than the one he had left in Miami – and stood behind iron gates, away from any other houses by quite some distance. The main thrust of the city lay somewhere in the distance too, and the surrounding lush trees and lakes made it seem as though they were in the middle of nowhere. As Ned had driven her up the drive way, she had been unable to stifle the happy giggle that had escaped her at the sight of it all.

She had roamed the house alone for a good hour at first, although she had not meant for it to take that long. But the house was a treasure, opening up to her at every turn, with another door to be opened and stepped through. It was clear that it had sat empty for too long and was almost yearning for new blood. Ned and his brother had begun to repaint and the rooms, but there was still work to be done. The old, empty spaces were crying out for voices to fill them again, and Cat found herself standing silently in the master bedroom with her hand across her growing belly, thinking of all life and laughter they would bring here. It made her smile.

Ned came up behind her, his footsteps causing the wood to creak slightly as he did so. Cat closed her eyes as his hands slipped carefully around her waist and revelled in the feel of him, pressed up against her back. He spoke softly, his mouth just above her ear.

'Do you like it then?'

'Oh definitely. It's beautiful. It's so big though!'

'Well we're making a good start of filling it.'

His hands went to her stomach, where the curve was now definitely pronounced. He kissed her delicately on the side of her neck, the most tender thing she had known him do in the whole time she had known him. She had been here only hours and already the difference in him was clear.

As if sensing her thoughts, he pulled away and came to stand beside her; a shade of the awkwardness that she was so familiar with returning to him again. She took his hand, unwilling to let him break the connection entirely. They both gazed out of the big windows in to the green world beyond.

'I sold most of the old things back in Miami' he said. 'And Roberts brought the hotel and the casino from me. That, and the money my dad left, means we can start from scratch here. Me and Benjen haven't really got a clue about decorating. I thought I should leave it up to you.'

She grinned at him.

'I already have some ideas.'

'Good. I want you to be happy here. I want you to stay.'

She could have cried then, from the sheer weight of her relief, but she kept her eyes forward and her hand in his and just tried to enjoy the feeling. She felt him looking at her, but she was afraid to turn.

'How long has this been in your family?'

'Oh years. It was my grandfather who brought it. I remember coming here once, when I was a lot younger.'

'I can't believe your dad ever wanted to leave it. It's stunning.'

'I don't think he ever wanted to, not really. That's why he never sold it. I think his heart was always in this place. He grew up here, married my mother here. It was only Aerys that made him go back south.'

They stood in silence for a little longer until she felt his eyes on her again and she was compelled to look. He smiled at her in a that sad, slightly crooked way of his.

'I can't promise Robert won't ask the same of me, one day. He never wanted me to move away. I owe him a lot. Everything I run up here is still done with his blessing.'

Cat wondered why he felt the need to say that. She knew how this worked. She smiled reassuringly.

'I know. But Robert is not Aerys and he hasn't asked for you yet.' She grinned impishly. 'Besides, I might not let you go. Has he considered that, I wonder?'

She laughed but Ned didn't. Something in those plain, grey eyes was beginning to trouble her.

'I've asked so much of you' he said slowly, not breaking his gaze. 'And I know that coming here was not easy. Our lives won't be straight forward or normal. I'm not going to keep regular office hours and be home every weekend. Our business doesn't work like that. There'll always be risk.'

Cat frowned.

'I know that. I've always known that. I grew up the same as you, remember? I'm in this life wherever I am, that's just facts. But it's our risk now. Your business is my business, ok?'

His expression did not change or soften. He continued to look at her with a disarming intensity.

'I just mean that I wish I could have given you something else. Something better maybe. It's all happened so quickly, neither of us has had time to think. Or to plan.'

'Ned, you're worrying me now.'

There was something in the way he was holding her eye that made her scared to look away. If he was meant to be reassuring her, he was failing.

'If you don't want this, then I can't blame you. If you want to walk away, I won't stop you. But you should know everything Cat.'

'What else is there?'

Cat heard her voice break and waver, as the panic started to creep in. The way he was drawing it out was maddening. If he had changed his mind about having her here, then he was being particularly cruel about it. She thought about the way he'd kissed her neck and refused to believe that had been a lie.

'There's a boy' he said shortly, and for long, confusing moment she had no idea what he meant.

'Theon? Yes, I remember. The boy…'

'No' he said, cutting her off, still with that look.

'Another one.'

'I don't understand.'

'He's only a baby. A few months old, nothing more. And he has to live here, with us.'

Cat stared at him blankly.

'But his parents?'

Only then did Ned break his gaze.

'His mother died.'

Cat searched his expression but could find nothing at all to hang on to. Nothing at all that made any sense.

'And his dad?'

Ned hesitated before answering, long enough for her to start to realise what he was saying to her. She felt as if she were falling.

'I'm all he has left' was all he would say.

Cat let go of his hand.

'Please Cat. I'm sorry I haven't told you about this until now. I am, honestly.'

Her mind was racing again, all the same old feelings she had felt before when he told her about Theon but this time so much worse - the silent war being raged between her heart and her head. All she could do was stare at him.

'He's my responsibility. I hope you can see that. I have to do the right thing.'

The little voice stamped its foot petulantly and demanded that she leave. Her wounded pride howled for vengeance against this faceless, nameless woman who had stolen her only real bond to his man; this man who she hardly knew and yet loved wholeheartedly. The woman who had gotten there before her. But her head reminded her it was only pride. And pride was foolish.

'What's his name?' she asked quietly.

'Jon.'

'That's a good name.'

He reached for her hand again and she did not protest.

'Cat I am so sorry.'

'Who was she?'

Again the break in his gaze, the downcast look.

'It doesn't matter.'

The little voice shouted that of course it mattered. Of course! How could it not? Her real voice spoke in more measured tones.

'Will you tell me anything about her at all?'

He looked back at her and took her other hand in his, taking a step closer.

'I will give you anything you want in this world, but please don't ask me about that. I made a promise.'

She searched his eyes for a lie, for some trace of malice or deception. For a long while, she simply stood and studied his expression and he, sensing her need, let her. After a while, the howling in her head began to fall silent.

Then, suddenly decisive, she spoke.

'I love you.'

She realised, as she said it, that she had no idea how he would respond and that she really didn't care. She had said it for her sake, not his. It was the truth, plainly spoken. And it didn't need a reaction to make it more so.

Nevertheless, when he smiled she felt her heart jump.

'I love you too.'

And really, her head told her sensibly, that was all that should matter. She would deal with the rest of it another day. The little voice closed its mouth for now and outside, the green stretched on.


	40. Chapter 40

**AN: **So this is the last chapter. I feel like I've taken these characters as far as I want to for now. But I'm still so grateful for the feedback I've had and if even just one person enjoyed reading this, then I consider myself very lucky indeed. I will write more - you may take that as a promise or a threat, depending on your view point :) Thank you x

* * *

Cersei.

Her dress was flawless. She had wanted simple silk with only a hint of embroidery along the neckline; nothing that would distract from the diamond necklace or the rock on her finger. Pure white would have washed her out, and drawn all the colour from her skin so she had chosen ivory. With it's creamy touch of gold, it made her complexion glow like she was lit from within and drew out all the fine shades of honey in her hair. The cut was simple too - an empire line that lightly kissed her hips and came to rest tight under her bust. Enough cleavage to be sexy, but not enough to offend the old priest, although Cersei was sure he would find fault anyway.

The finishing touch sat upon her head, amid the loosely bound waves of her hair. The tiara had been a present from her father, and had been commissioned for her especially. It was a truly beautiful piece, comprised of a wreath of white gold leaves and delicately wrought roses, studded with diamonds and pearls. As one of her bridesmaids had placed it carefully on her head, Cersei could have sworn a heavenly fanfare had begun to sound. Next to it, the heavy necklace with its oversized jewels had never seemed so gaudy. She couldn't believe she had ever found it beautiful. Every time she glanced at the glittering crown – delicate, understated, regal – she felt the heaviness of the trinket around her neck, reminding her of the price she was paying. Still, she reminded herself, a crown was still a crown and never had there been a woman more deserving of one.

Cersei remembered the day she had watched Rhaegar marry his Californian bride. She had been just a girl then, and so bitterly jealous of that graceful woman with her skin like copper and her blackberry curls. Elia had worn a gown of pure white satin, with intricate lace that had covered her arms right down to the wrist. The skirt had been full and luxurious, and made a soft sweeping noise as her father had walked her down the aisle. It had made her seem so tiny; this slim little woman swathed in billowing layers of snowy white. She had seemed smaller still when she came to stand next to her husband, although he had looked at her like she was the most glorious creature he had ever seen. Cersei remembered that look well, because she had sat there with her fingernails dug in to her palms, wishing with all might that those violet eyes had been looking at her like that. Maybe her jealously had coloured her memories, but she didn't remember Elia looking like a woman who deserved a crown. Beautiful, in a certain way, and dressed all in finery, but not a queen.

When she was younger, Cersei had often imagined how her own wedding would be. Certain details changed quite regularly; sometimes she carried orchids, sometimes it was peonies. For a while, in a more fanciful mood, she wanted to get married in a meadow, surrounded by wild flowers and under the stars. Her hair was up, down and all manner of styles in between. Sometimes she imagined a feast of elegant Tuscan delights, and at others, finger food and prim little sandwiches. One feature was always the same though – she was always the star. When she ascended, everyone would turn and gasp. People had gasped at Elia, she would concede to that if she had too. But the woman had been a feature in the own wedding, not the centre piece of it.

But as she had grown up, she had imagined that day less and less. It was the groom who always caused the trouble. As a child, it had been easy. It would always be Jaime standing up there at the altar, like a glowing golden beacon calling her home. She would glide up to meet him with open arms, and two halves would become a whole. But time and bitter experience had put paid to that idea, and before long it was consigned to the back recess of her mind, along with all other guilty pleasures.

There had been no one else to fill the void until her father had snapped, in a rather off hand sort of way, that perhaps she would be a good fit for Rhaegar. His sarcasm had been obvious; after all, she was only 15 and in the full bloom of adolescent petulance. Tywin's patience had been growing short with both her and his employer, and his comments had been born from nothing more than frustration. Still, it hadn't stopped the idea from taking a firm root in Cersei's mind, before exploding with all the glorious intensity of teenage lust and romanticism. It had died just as brilliantly, the day she watched him marry that meek little woman. When she thought back on those dewy eyed days now, Cersei cringed. Still there was a certain satisfaction to be had from still remembering that look he had given his new bride, the one she had once so acutely converted. What was a look really, when weighed against all the other measures of a marriage? It was as insubstantial as water, and just as cheap. A look hadn't stopped Rheager from leaving his pretty little wife in the end. A look hadn't saved Elia from her fate.

The room was beginning to feel crowded, despite them being accommodated in one of lush, spacious suites that Robert's hotel boasted. The bridesmaids were chattering and flapping, sipping their free champagne and spraying each other with perfume, making noise. A collection of women that Cersei hardly knew, selected only for who their parents were and whether or not they would draw focus from the bride. All together, a rather plain and brawdy bunch who had begun to grate on Cersei the moment she knew their names. Above them, in the penthouse, a similar collection of men had been gathered to play homage to her soon-to-be-husband, although she knew he would have at least called some of them friends which was more than she could say for her lot. The sound of their raucous laughter came down in muffled bursts, along with their heavy foot falls. Below her, a few more stories down, the row upon row of empty chairs and the altar waiting...

She told them all to go wait somewhere else; she wanted a few moments alone. They, being the dutiful hens, obliged and left her to her silence. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine how she would feel when those doors opened and she saw Robert standing there. She wanted to be prepared for whatever emotion her body threw at her, so she could walk towards him in complete and utter control. Her moment could not be marred by some unchecked feeling, like the flicker of something cruel in the eyes or an untested smile. She couldn't be certain which was more likely, even after all this time. But she did know that she would walk towards him looking like the queen she was becoming; cold and beguiling and vicious as a faraway storm.

The door made her jump, opening behind her without warning. But her anger died when she saw his eyes watching her and the hungry smile that followed. Jaime was not in black, having for once been allowed to be a Lannister rather than Roberts' bodyguard, if only for the night. For this rare opportunity, he had chosen an ash grey suit that went well with the damson coloured tie and matching shirt underneath. It was a pleasure to see him in something of his own again, although a small part of her missed the Jaime of last year. The one that wore ripped jeans and t-shirts, and sneakers with the laces hanging loose. When he came close to her, and let his hand run over her collar bone, she caught a snatch of his scent and remembered that not everything had changed. He bent his head and kissed her gently on the side of her neck.

'You look beautiful' he said softly as he knelt down behind her. His face came level to hers and he rested his chin on her shoulder, still grinning. Cersei watched their twin reflections in her mirror silently, unable to bring herself to return his smile. Jaime's hands were around her waist and he gave her a gentle squeeze, running his hands over the fabric of her dress.

'Is this new?' he asked, with a raised eyebrow. 'It suits you. You should wear it more often.'

Despite herself, she laughed.

'Shouldn't you be upstairs, with the rest of the men?'

Jaime kissed her neck again, higher up this time, at the place under her ear where her jaw line came to rest.

'Dad made his excuses ages ago, so I didn't feel the need to stay. Robert won't miss me. He's got half of the city up there with him.'

The party above seemed in full swing, but it came to them in echoes, half hidden and strange, soon to be lost in the silence that surrounded them both. Cersei watched him in the mirror as he continued to kiss his way down her neck, feeling strangely removed from the feeling of his lips against her skin. She watched as he came to the chain of her necklace and pulled back, a quizzical look on his face.

'Hold on… Let me try something.'

He undid the clasp and slid the jewels from around her neck, and she immediately felt herself sit slightly taller. In the mirror, her reflection seemed suddenly bare until Jaime came to rest his chin on her shoulder once more and smiled. She smiled back this time.

'That's better' he said quietly. 'You don't need all that shit.'

In silence, she let her head come to rest against his. His hands were around her waist again and her fingers sought them out, lacing them together. Stillness lay across them both like a blanket, comforting and warm. Upstairs, the party raged on, but here all was silent. For a long while, they just looked at one another in the mirror.

Jaime was the first to move. Standing, he kept hold of her hands and gently pulled her up too, moving her around to face him. Now she was looking at his face, and not his reflection, she couldn't meet his eye. There were things she wanted to say, but they seemed inconsequential now. In a matter of hours she would be married. But she remembered the tiara on her head and what is represented, and she thought about Elia in her ball gown and the look that had not saved her. Her heart found its' teeth.

'Kiss me' she demanded, and he did. She bit him a little, hoping to taste blood – their blood – on her lips. She would meet her new husband with her brothers' marks still fresh on her skin. She would wear the imprint of his hands across her like the tiara on her head, hidden but just as glorious. The bruises on her hips and thigh, a perfect outline of his fingers.

And later, in the cold, cruel dark at the tail end of the day, she felt a pang of guilt for that. And she wondered, briefly and with something almost like fear, if Robert might have noticed. And she thought perhaps the guilt meant something; that perhaps there was a chance for them underneath all the smashed up pieces of her life. A chance for her.

And then he whispered a dead girls name in her ear and she remembered that this was not a fairytale, and he was not her knight.

But crown or no, she was still a queen. She would have that, at least.


End file.
